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THE 


BARDS  OF  THE  BIBLE. 


BY 


GEOEGE    GILFILLAN. 


NEW  YORK : 
HARPEU    &    BROTHERS, 

82   CLIFF   STREET. 

1851. 


p' 


§ 


f 


PREFACE 


The  succeeding  work  does  not  profess  to  be  an  elab- 
orate or  full  account  of  the  mechanical  structure  of 
Hebrew  poetry,  nor  a  work  of  minute  and  verbal  criti- 
cism. In  order  that  the  book  may  be  tried  by  its  own 
pretensions,  the  author  deems  it  necessary  to  premise 
that,  while  containing  much  literary  criticism,  and  a 
considerable  proportion  of  biographical  and  religious 
matter,  and  while  meant  to  develop  indirectly  a  sub- 
sidiary argument  for  the  truth  and  divinity  of  the  Bible, 
its  main  ambition  is  to  be  a  Prose  Poem,  or  Hymn,  in 
honor  of  the  Poetry  and  Poets  of  the  inspired  volume, 
although,  as  the  reader  will  perceive,  he  has  occasion- 
ally diverged  into  the  analysis  of  Scripture  characters, 
and  more  rarely  into  cognate  fields  of  literature  or  of 
speculation. 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  asked  why  he  has  not  conform- 
ed to  the  common  practice  of  printing  his  poetical  quo- 
tations from  Scripture,  as  poetry^  in  their  form  of  par- 
allelism. His  answer  is  merely,  that  he  never  could 
bring  himself  to  relish  the  practice,  or  to  read  with 
pleasure  those  translations  of  the  Bible  where  it  was 
used.  Even  favorite  passages,  in  this  guise,  seemed 
new  and  cold  to  him.      This,  of  course,  was  in  some 

3957€1 


IV  PREFACE. 

measure,  he  knew,  the  effect  of  associations ;  but  such 
associations,  he  knew  also,  were  not  confined  to  him. 
He  may  say  this  the  more  fearlessly,  as  translations 
of  the  great  master-pieces  of  foreign  literature  into 
plain  English  prose  are  becoming  the  order  of  the 
day. 

He  has  also  to  explain,  that  two,  or,  at  the  most, 
three  passages  are  here  repeated  from  his  *'  Gralleries,'* 
for  the  reason,  simply,  that  they  at  first  belonged  to  a 
rough  draft  of  the  present  work,  which  he  began  to 
draw  out  before  his  "  First  Gallery"  appeared.  They 
are  now  restored  to  their  original  position 

Dundee,  November  14,  1850. 


CONTENTS. 


■4  *  » 

PAGS 

INTRODUCTION, .  .         ix 

CHAPTER  I. 

CIRCUMSTANCES   CREATING   AND    MODIFYING    OLD   TESTAMENT 

POETRr,  .  .      ■ 23 

CHAPTER  11. 

GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS   OF   HEBREW  POETRY,         .  .  42 

CHAPTER  III. 

VARIETIES   OF   HEBREW  POETRY,  .  .  .  .  ,  68 

CHAPTER  ly. 

POETRY   OF   THE   PENTATEUCH,  .  .  .  .  ,  69 

CHAPTER  V. 

POETRY   OF   THE   BOOK  OF  JOB, ,  76 

CHAPTER  YI. 

POETRY  OF   THE   HISTORICAL   BOOKS,    .....  96 

CHAPTER  YII. 

tOETRT  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS, 114 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SOLOMON  AND  HIS  POETRY, 


PAGE 

130 


CHAPTER  IX. 

INTRODUCTION  TO  THE   PROPHETIC  BOOKS, 


145 


ISAIAH, 
JEREMIAH, 
EZEKIEL, 
DANIEL, 


CHAPTER  X. 


160 
154 
159 
166 


JONAH, 

AMOS, 

HOSEA, 

JOEL, 

MIGAH, 

NAHUM, 

ZEPHANIAH 

HABAKKUK 

OBADIAH, 

HAGGAI, 

ZECHARIAH 

MALACHI,    . 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE    MINOR    PROPHETS 


173 

181 
186 
189 
194 
199 
200 
203 
207 
209 
211 
214 


CHAPTER  XII. 

CIRCUMSTANCES  MODIFYING   NEW   TESTAMENT  POETRY, 


217 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

POETRY  OF   THE  GOSPELS,      .... 


242 


CONTENTS.  VU 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

PAGE 

PAUL,        ' 247 

CHAPTER  XV. 

PETER  AND  JAMES, *]      270 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
JOHN, 280 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

COMPARATIVE  ESTIMATE,  INFLUENCES,  AND    EFFECTS  OF  SCRIP- 
TURE  POETRY, •  .         296 

CONCLUSION. 

FUTURE   DESTINY   OF   THE   BIBLE,  .  .  .  .  .        328 

SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER. 

THE   POETICAL   CHARACTERS   IN   SCRIPTURE,  .  •  .        352 


INTRODUCTION. 


That  so  much  of  Scripture  should  be  written  in  the 
language  of  poetry,  has  excited  some  surprise,  and  cre- 
ated some  inquiry ;  and  yet  in  nothing  do  we  perceive 
more  clearly  than  in  this,  the  genuineness,  power, 
and  divinity  of  the  oracles  of  our  faith.  As  the  lan- 
guage of  poetry  is  that  into  which  all  earnest  natures 
are  insensibly  betrayed,  so  it  is  the  only  speech  which 
has  in  it  the  power  of  permanent  impression.  As  it 
gives  two  ideas  in  the  space  of  one,  so  it  writes  these 
before  the  view,  as  with  the  luminousness  of  fire.  The 
language  of  the  imagination  is  the  native  language  of 
man.  It  is  the  language  of  his  excited  intellect — of 
his  aroused  passions — of  his  devotion  —  of  all  the 
higher  moods  and  temperaments  of  his  mind.  It  was 
meet,  therefore,  that  it  should  be  the  language  of  his 
revelation  from  G-od.  It  was  meet  that,  when  man 
was  called  into  the  presence  of  his  Maker,  he  should 
not  be  addressed  with  cold  formality,  nor  in  words  of 
lead,  nor  yet  in  the  harsh  thunder  of  peremptory  com- 
mand and  warning,  but  that  he  should  hear  the  same 
figured  and  glowing  speech,  to  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed, flowing  in  mellower  and  more  majestic  accents 
from  the  lips  of  his  G-od. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  language  of  poetry  has,  therefore,  become  the 
language  of  the  inspired  volume.  The  Bible  is  a 
mass  of  beautiful  figures — its  words  and  its  thoughts 
are  alike  poetical — it  has  gathered  around  its  central 
truths  all  natural  beauty  and  interest — it  is  a  temple, 
with  one  altar  and  one  God,  but  illuminated  by  a 
thousand  varied  lights,  and  studded  with  a  thousand 
ornaments.  It  has  substantially  but  one  declaration 
to  make,  but  it  utters  it  in  the  voices  of  the  creation. 
Shining  forth  from  the  excellent  glory,  its  light  has 
been  reflected  on  a  myriad  intervening  objects,  till  it 
has  been  at  length  attempered  for  our  earthly  vision. 
It  now  beams  upon  us  at  once  from  the  heart  of  man 
and  from  the  countenance  of  nature.  It  has  arrayed 
itself  in  the  charms  of  fiction.  It  has  gathered  new 
beauty  from  the  works  of  creation,  and  new  warmth 
and  new  power  from  the  very  passions  of  clay.  It  has 
pressed  into  its  service  the  animals  of  the  forest,  the 
flowers  of  the  field,  the  stars  of  heaven,  all  the  ele- 
ments of  nature.  The  lion  spurning  the  sands  of  the 
desert,  the  wild  roe  leaping  over  the  mountains,  the 
lamb  led  in  silence  to  the  slaughter,  the  goat  speeding  to 
the  wilderness,  the  rose  blossoming  in  Sharon,  the  lily 
drooping  in  the  valley,  the  apple-tree  bowing  under  its 
fruit,  the  great  rock  shadowing  a  weary  land,  the  river 
gladdening  the  dry  place,  the  moon  and  the  morning 
star,  Carmel  by  the  sea,  and  Tabor  among  the  moun- 
tains, the  dew  from  the  womb  of  the  morning,  the 
rain  upon  the  mown  grass,  the  rainbow  encompassing 
the  landscape,  the  light  God's  shadow,  the  thunder 
His  voice,  the  wind  and  the  earthquake  His  footsteps 
— all  such  varied  objects  are  made  as  if  naturally  de- 
signed from  their  creation  to  represent  Him  to  whom 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

the  Book  and  all  its  emblems  point.  Thus  the  quick 
spirit  of  the  Book  has  ransacked  creation  to  lay  its 
treasures  on  Jehovah's  altar — united  the  innumerable 
rays  of  a  far-streaming  glory  on  the  little  hill,  Calvary 
— and  woven  a  garland  for  the  bleeding  brow  of  Im- 
manuel,  the  flowers  of  which  have  been  culled  from 
the  gardens  of  a  universe. 

This  praise  may  seem  lofty,  but  it  is  due  to  the 
Bible,  and  to  it  alone — because  it  only,  of  all  poems, 
has  uttered  in  broken  fullness,  in  finished  fragments, 
that  shape  of  the  universal  truth  which  instantly  in- 
carnates itself  in  living  nature — fills  it  as  a  hand  a 
glove — impregnates  it  as  a  thought  a  word — peoples 
it  as  a  form  a  mirror.  The  truth  the  Bible  teaches  is 
not  indeed  the  absolute,  abstract,  entire  truth ;  but  it 
is  (in  our  judgment,  and  as  it  shall  yet  be  more  fully 
understood)  the  most  clear,  succinct,  consistent,  broad, 
and  practical  representation  of  the  truth  which  has 
ever  fallen,  or  which  in  this  world  ever  shall  fall,  upon 
the  fantastic  mirror  of  the  human  heart,  or  of  nature, 
and  which  from  both  has  compelled  the  most  faithful 
and  enduring  image.  It  does  not  occupy  the  whole 
compass  of  the  sky  of  the  infinite  from  which  it  pro- 
ceeds ;  it  does  not  waylay  all  future,  any  more  than 
all  past  emanations  from  that  region  ;  but  it  covers, 
and  commands  as  a  whole,  that  disk  of  the  finite  over 
which  it  bends.  It  is,  as  thp  amplest,  clearest,  and 
highest  word  ever  spoken  to  man,  entitled  to  command 
our  belief,  as  well  as,  through  the  fire  and  the  natural 
graces  of  the  utterance,  to  excite  our  admiration,  and 
comes  over  the  world  and  man,  not  as  a  suppliant,  but 
as  a  sovereign — not  the  timid^  but  (in  the  old  sense) 


Xll  INTRODUCTION. 

the  tyrannous  ruler  of  our  earthly  night,  '^  until  the 
day  dawn,  and  the  day-star  arise  in  our  hearts." 

"Without  entering  into  the  vexed  and  vexatious 
question  of  verbal  inspiration — without  seeking  mi- 
nutely to  analyze  that  abysmal  word — inspiration — or 
to  examine  the  details  of  a  controversy  which  is  little 
more  than  begun — we  would,  as  a  proper  preliminary 
to  our  future  remarks,  thus  express  more  explicitly, 
though  shortly,  our  general  belief  as  to  what  the 
Bible  is,  and  what  is  its  relative  position  to  men  and 
to  other  works. 

The  Bible  is  not  then,  to  commence  with  negatives, 
a  scientific  book  ;  its  intention  is  not  to  teach  geology 
or  astronomy,  any  more  than  meteorology  or  conchol- 
ogy ;  its  allusions  to  the  subjects  of  science  are  inci- 
dental, brief,  glancing  for  a  moment  to  a  passing  topic, 
and  then  rapidly  returning  to  its  main  and  master 
theme.  Not  only  so,  but  its  statements  seem  often  to 
coincide  with  floating  popular  notions,  as  well  as  to 
clothe  themselves  in  popular  language,  while  they 
never  fail,  through  their  wonted  divine  alchymy,  to 
deduce  from  them  lessons  of  moral  truth  and  wisdom. 
It  is  not  a  full  but  a  fragmentary  record  even  of  that 
part  of  man's  history  to  which  it  confines  itself.  It  is 
not  a  moral  or  metaphysical  treatise ;  and,  of  logical 
analysis  or  deduction,  it  has  (save  in  Paul's  Epistles) 
little  or  none.  The  most  religious,  it  is  the  least 
theological  of  books,  so  far  as  theology  means  a  con- 
scious, compact,  distinctly  enounced,  and  elaborately 
defended  system.  An  artistic  work  it  can  scarcely  be 
called,  so  slight  is  the  artifice  of  its  language  and 


INTRODUCTION.  XlU 

rKytlimical  construction.  It  is  rude  in  speecli,  though, 
not  in  knowledge.  What  then  is  the  Bible  ?  It  is,  as 
a  history,  the  narrative  of  a  multitude  of  miraculous 
facts,  which  skepticism  has  often  challenged,  but  never 
disproved,  and  which,  to  say  the  least,  must  now  re- 
main unsolved  phenomena— the  aerolites  of  history — 
speaking  like  those  from  the  sky  of  an  unearthly  re- 
gion— the  narrative,  too,  of  a  life  (that  of  Jesus)  at 
once  ideally  perfect,  and  trembling  all  over  with  hu- 
manity, really  spent  under  this  sun,  and  yet  lit  along 
its  every  step  and  suffering  by  a  light  above  it — a  life 
which  has  since  become  the  measure  of  all  other  lives, 
the  standard  of  human  and  of  absolute  perfection — the 
ideal  at  once  ofma7i  atid  of  God.  As  a  poem — moral 
and  didactic — it  is  a  repertory  of  divine  instincts — a 
collection  of  the  deepest  intuitions  of  truth,  beauty, 
justice,  holiness — the  past,  the  present,  the  future — 
which,  by  their  far  vision,  the  power  with  wliich  they 
have  stamped  themselves  on  the  belief  and  heart,  the 
hopes  and  fears,  the  days  and  nights  of  humanity, 
their  superiority  to  aught  else  in  the  thoughts  or  words 
of  man,  their  consistency  with  themselves,  their  adap- 
tation to  general  needs,  their  cheering  influence,  their 
progressive  development,  and  their  close-drawn  con- 
nection with  those  marvelous  and  unshaken  facts — 
are  proved  divine  in  a  sense  altogether  peculiar  and 
alone. 

In  its  relation  to  man,  the  Bible  therefore  stands 
thus  : — It  is  the  authority  for  the  main  principle  of  his 
belief ;  it  is  the  manual  of  the  leading  rites  and  prac- 
tices of  his  worship  ;  as  the  manifold  echo  of  the  voice 
of  his  conscience,  it  constitutes  the  grand  standard  of 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

his  morality;  it  is  his  fullest  and  most  authentic  mis- 
sive from  his  Maker ;  it  is  his  sole  torch  into  the 
darkness  of  the  unseen  world  ;  all  his  science,  his  art, 
and  his  philosophy,  it  aims  at,  and,  at  last  (in  the 
course  of  its  own  development,  for  it  is  ''a  fire  unfold- 
ing itself"),  shall  succeed  in  drawing  into  harmony 
with  its  principles  ;  and  of  his  poetry,  it  is  the  loftiest 
reach.  Thus,  it  is  designed  at  once  to  command  and 
to  charm,  to  subdue  and  to  sublimate,  the  mind  of 
man  ;  to  command  his  belief  into  obedience — to  charm 
his  heart  and  his  imagination — to  subdue  his  moral 
nature — and  to  sublimate  the  springs  of  his  hope  and 
joy  ;  predestined,  too,  to  move  along  with  his  progress, 
but  to  move  as  did  the  fiery  pillar  with  the  armies  of 
Israel,  above  and  before  him — his  guide  as  well  as 
companion,  directing  his  motions,  while  attending  his 
march.  Its  power  over  man  has,  need  we  say  ?  been 
obstinately  and  long  resisted — but  resisted  in  vain. 
For  ages,  has  this  artless,  loosely-piled,  little  book  been 
exposed  to  the  fire  of  the  keenest  investigation — a  fire 
which  meanwhile  has  consumed  contemptuously  the 
mythology  of  the  Iliad,  the  husbandry  of  the  Greorgics, 
the  historical  truth  of  Livy,  the  fables  of  the  Shaster, 
the  Talmud,  and  the  Koran,  the  artistic  merit  of  many 
a  popular  poem,  the  authority  of  many  a  work  of  phi- 
losophy and  science.  And  yet,  there  the  Bible  lies, 
unhurt,  untouched,  with  not  one  of  its  pages  singed— 
with  not  even  the  smell  of  fire  having  passed  upon  it. 
Many  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  scare  away  this 
*'  Fiery  Pillar"  of  our  wanderings,  or  to  prove  it  a 
mere  natural  product  of  the  wilderness ;  but  still, 
night  after  night,  rises — like  one  of  the  sure  and  ever- 
shining  stars — in  the  vanguard  of  the  great  march  of 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

man,  the  old  column,  gliding  slow,  but  guiding  cer- 
tainly to  future  lands  of  promise,  both  in  the  life  that 
is,  and  in  that  which  cometh  hereafter. 

In  relation  to  other  books,  the  Bible  occupies  a  pe- 
culiar and  solitary  position.  It  is  independent  of  all 
others ;  it  imitates  no  other  book  ;  it  copies  none  ;  it 
hardly  alludes  to  any  other,  whether  in  praise  or 
blame ;  and  this  is  nearly  as  true  of  its  later  portions, 
when  books  were  common,  as  of  its  earlier,  when 
books  were  scarce.  It  proves  thus  its  originality  and 
power.  Mont  Blanc  does  not  measure  himself  with 
Jura  ;  does  not  name  her,  nor  speak,  save  when  in 
thunder  he  talks  to  her  of  Grod.  Then  only,  too,  does 
she 

"  Answer  from  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps." 

John  never  speaks  of  Plato,  nor  Paul  of  Demosthenes, 
nor  Jesus  of  any  writer,  save  Moses  and  the  Prophets. 
In  those  great  heights,  you  feel  blowing  round  your 
temples,  and  stirring  your  hair,  the  free,  original,  an- 
cient Breath  of  the  upper  world,  unconventional,  un- 
mixed, and  irresistible,  as  the  mountain  tempest.  It 
is  a  book  unlike  all  others — the  points  of  difference 
being  these,  among  many  more  : — First,  There  is  a 
certain  grand  unconsciousness,  as  in  Niagara,  speak- 
ing now  in  the  same  tone  to  the  tourists  of  a  world, 
as  when  she  spoke  to  the  empty  wilderness  and  the 
silent  sun ;  as  in  the  Himalayan  Hills,  which  cast  the 
same  look  of  still  sovereignty  over  an  India  unpeopled 
after  the  Deluge,  as  over  an  India  the  hive  of  swelter- 
ing nations.     Thus  burst  forth,  cries  of  nature — the 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

voices  of  the  Prophets ;  and  thus  do  their  eyes,  from 
the  high  places  of  the  world,  overlook  all  the  earth. 
You  are  aware,  again,  in  singular  union  with  this  pro- 
found unconsciousness  and  simplicity,  of  a  knowledge 
and  insight  equally  profound.  It  is  as  though  a  child 
should  pause  amid  her  play,  and  tell  you  the  secrets 
of  your  heart,  and  the  particulars  of  your  after  history. 
The  bush  beside  your  path  suddenly  begins  to  sigh 
forth  an  oracle,  in  "  words  unutterable."  That  un- 
conscious page  seems,  like  the  wheel  .in  Ezekiel's 
vision,  to  be  "full  of  eyes;"  and,  open  it  wherever 
you  may,  you  start  back  in  surprise  or  terror,  feeling 
"  this  book  knows  all  about  us  ;  it  eyes  us  meaningly  ; 
it  is  a  discerner  of  the  thoughts  and  intents  of  our 
hearts."  Those  herdsmen,  vinedressers,  shepherds, 
fishermen,  and  homeless  wanderers,  are  coeval  with 
all  time,  and  see  the  end  from  the  beginning.  You 
perceive,  again,  the  presence  of  a  high  and  holy  pur- 
pose pervading  the  Book,  which  is  to  trace  and  pro- 
mulgate the  existence  of  certain  spiritual  laws,  origin- 
ally communicated  by  Grod,  developed  in  the  history 
of  a  peculiar  people,  illustrated  by  the  ruin  of  nations, 
proclaimed  in  a  system  of  national  religion  and  na- 
tional poetry,  and  at  last  sealed',  cemented,  and  spread 
abroad  through  the  blood  and  Gospel  of  One  who  had 
always  been  expected,  and  who  at  last  arrived — the 
Christ  promised  to  the  Fathers.  It  is  this  which 
renders  the  Bible,  in  all  its  parts,  religious  and  holy ; 
casts  over  its  barest  portions  such  an  interest  as  the 
shadow  of  the  fiiery  Pillar  gave  to  the  sand  and  shrubs 
over  which  it  passed — makes  what  otherwise  appear 
trifles,  great  as  trappings  of  Godhead — and  extracts 
from  fiction  and  fable,  from  the  crimes  of  the  evil  and 


INTRODUCTION.  XVll 

the  failings  of  the  good,  aid  to  its  main  object,  and 
illustration  of  its  main  principles.  You  find  yourself 
again  in  the  presence  of  a  '^  true  thing."  We  hear 
of  the  spell  of  fiction,  but  a  far  stronger  spell  is  that  of 
truth ;  indeed,  fiction  derives  its  magic  from  the  quan- 
tity of  truth  it  contrives  to  disguise.  In  this  book, 
you  find  truth  occasionally,  indeed,  concealed  under 
the  garb  of  allegory  and  fable,  but  frequently  in  a  form 
as  naked  and  majestic  as  Adam  when  he  rose  from  the 
greensward  of  Eden.  *'  This  is  true,"  we  exclaim, 
*'  were  all  else  a  lie.  Here,  we  have  found  men,  ear- 
nest as  the  stars,  speaking  to  us  in  language  which, 
by  its  very  heat,  impetuosity,  unworldliness,  fearless- 
ness, almost  if  not  altogether  imprudence,  severity, 
and  grandeur,  proves  itself  sincere,  if  there  be  sin- 
cerity in  earth  or  in  heaven."  Once  more,  the  Bible, 
you  feel,  answers  a  question  which  other  books  can  not. 
This — the  question  of  questions,  the  question  of  all 
ages — is,  in  our  vernacular  and  expressive  speech, 
''  What  shall  I  do  to  be  saved  r  ^'  How  shall  I  be 
peaceful,  resigned,  holy,  and  hopeful  here,  and  how 
happy  hereafter,  when  this  cold  cloak — the  body — has 
fallen  off  from  the  bounding  soul  within."  To  this, 
the  ''  Iliad"  of  Homer,  the  Plays  of  Shakspeare,  the 
*'  Celeste  Mechanique"  of  La  Place,  and  the  Works 
of  Plato,  return  no  proper  reply.  To  this  immense 
query,  the  Book  has  given  an  answer,  which  may 
theoretically  have  been  interpreted  in  various  ways, 
but  which,  as  a  practical  truth,  he  who  runs  may  read  ; 
which  has  satisfied  the  souls  of  millions;  which  none 
ever  repented  of  obeying  ;  and  on  which  many  of  the 
wisest,  the  most  learned,  the  most  slow  of  heart  to 
believe,  as  well  as  the  ignorant  and  simple-minded. 


XVlll  INTRODUCTIOIf. 

have  at  last  been  content  to  lean  their  living  confi- 
dence and  their  dying  peace. 

I 

'  The  Book,  we  thus  are  justified  in  proclaiming  to 
be  superior  to  all  other  books  that  have  been,  or  are, 
or  shall  ever  be  on  earth.  And  this,  not  that  it  fore- 
stalls coming  books,  or  includes  all  their  essential 
truth  within  it;  nor  that,  in  polish,  art,  or  instant 
effect,  it  can  be  exalted  above  the  written  master-pieces 
of  human  genius  ; — what  comparison  in  elaboration, 
any  more  than  what  comparison  in  girth  and  great- 
ness, between  the  cabinet  and  the  oak  ;  but  it  is,  that 
the  Bible,  while  bearing  on  its  summit  the  hues  of  a 
higher  heaven,  overtopping  with  ease  all  human  struc- 
tures and  aspirations — in  earth,  but  not  of  it — com- 
municating with  the  omniscience,  and  recording  the 
acts  of  the  omnipotence,  of  Grod — is  at  the  same  time 
the  Bible  of  the  poor  and  lowly,  the  crutch  of  the 
aged,  the  pillow  of  the  widow,  the  eye  of  the  blind, 
the  "  boy's  own  book,"  the  solace  of  the  sick,  the  light 
of  the  dying,  the  grand  hope  and  refuge  of  simple, 
sincere,  and  sorrowing  spirits  ; — it  is  tlds  which  at  once 
proclaims  its  unearthly  origin,  and  so  clasps  it  to  the 
great  common  heart  of  humanity,  that  the  extinction 
of  the  sun  were  not  more  mourned  than  the  extinction 
of  the  Bible,  or  than  even  its  receding  from  its  present 
pride  of  place.  For,  while  other  books  are  planets 
shining  with  reflected  radiance,  this  book,  like  the 
sun,  shines  with  ancient  and  unborrowed  ray.  Other 
books  have,  to  their  loftiest  altitudes,  sprung  from 
earth ;  this  book  looks  down  from  heaven  high.  Other 
books  appeal  to  understanding  or  fancy  ;  this  book  to 
conscience  and  to  faith.     Other  books  seek  our  atten- 


INTRODUCTION.  XlX 

tion ;  tliis  book  demands  it — it  speaks  with  authority, 
and  not  as  the  Scribes.  Other  books  gUde  gracefully 
along  the  earth,  or  onward  to  the  mountain-summits 
of  the  ideal ;  this,  and  this  alone,  conducts  up  the 
awful  abyss  which  leads  to  heaven.  Other  books, 
after  shining  their  little  season,  may  perish  in  flames, 
fiercer  than  those  which  destroyed  the  Alexandrian 
Library ;  this  must,  in  essence,  remain  pure  as  gold, 
but  unconsumable  as  asbestos,  in  the  general  confla- 
gration. Other  books  may  be  forgotten  in  a  universe 
where  suns  go  down  and  disappear,  like  bubbles  in 
the  stream  ;  the  memory  of  this  book  shall  shine  as 
the  brightness  of  that  eternal  firmament,  and  as  those 
higher  stars,  which  are  forever  and  ever. 

It  is  of  the  Bible,  not  as  a  revelation  of  special^  but 
as  a  poem  embodying  general  truth,  that  we  propose 
in  the  following  work  to  speak.  Our  purpose  is  not 
to  expound  its  theological  tenets,  nor  its  ritual  worship 
(except  so  far  as  these  modify  the  imaginative  tenden- 
cies and  language  of  the  writers),  but  to  exhibit,  in 
some  degree,  the  beauty  of  the  poetic  utterance  which 
the  writers  have  given  to  their  views  and  feelings.  To 
this  task  we  proceed,  not  merely  at  the  instance  of 
individuals  whom  we  are  proud  to  call  friends,  but  be- 
cause we  feel  that  it  has  not  been  as  yet  accomplished 
adequately,  or  in  accommodation  to  the  spirit  of  the 
age.  Every  criticism  on  a  true  poem  should  be  it- 
self a  poem.  "We  have  many  excellent,  elaborate,  and 
learned  criticisms  upon  the  Poetry  of  the  Bible ;  but 
the  fragmentary  essay  of  Herder  alone  seems  to  ap- 
proach to  the  idea  of  a  prose  poem  on  the  subject.  A 
new  and  fuller  eflbrt  seems  to  be  demanded.    Writers, 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

too,  far  more  adapted  for  the  work  than  we,  have  di- 
verged from  it  in  various  directions.  Some  have  laud- 
ably devoted  themselves  to  building  up  anew,  and  in 
a  more  masterly  style,  the  evidences  of  the  authenti- 
city and  truth  of  Scripture  ;  others  are  employed  in  re- 
butting the  startling  objections  to  the  Bible  which 
have  arrived  from  across  the  Grerman  Ocean.  Many 
are  redarguing  the  whole  questions  of  supernatural 
inspiration  and  the  Scripture  canon  from  their  founda- 
tions ;  some  are  disposed  to  treat  Bible  poetry  as  some- 
thing above  literary  criticism ;  and  others  as  some- 
thing beneath  it.  The  majority  seem,  in  search  of 
mistakes,  or  in  search  of  mysteries,  to  have  forgotten 
that  the  Bible  is  a  poem  at  all. 

We  propose  therefore  to  take  up  this  neglected 
theme — the  Bards  of  the -Bible  ;  and  in  seeking  to  de- 
velop their  matchless  merit  as  masters  of  the  lyre — 
to  develop,  at  the  same  time,  indirectly,  a  subordinate 
though  strong  evidence  that  they  are  something  more 
— the  rightful  rulers  of  the  belief  and  the  heart  of 
man.  Perhaps  this  subject  may  not  be  found  alto- 
gether unsuited  to  the  wants  of  the  age.  If  properly 
treated,  it  may  induce  some  to  pause  before  they  seek 
any  longer  to  pull  in  vain  at  the  roots  of  a  thing  so 
beautiful.  It  may  teach  others  to  prize  that  Book 
somewhat  more  for  its  literature,  which  they  have 
all  along  loved  for  its  truth,  its  holiness,  and  its  adap- 
tation to  their  nature.  It  may  strengthen  some  falter- 
ing convictions,  and  tend  to  withdraw  enthusiasts 
from  the  exclusive  study  of  imperfect  modern  and 
morbid  models  to  those  great  ancient  masters.  It 
may,  possibly,  through  the  lesson  of  infinite  beauty, 


INTRODUCTION.  XXX 

successfully  insinuate  that  of  eternal  truth  into  some 
souls  hitherto  shut  against  one  or  both ;  and  as  thou- 
sands have  been  led  to  regard  the  Bible  as  a  book  of 
genius,  from  having  first  thought  it  a  book  of  God,  so 
in  thousands  may  the  process  be  inverted !  It  will, 
in  any  case,  repay,  in  a  certain  measure,  our  debt  to 
that  divine  volume,  which,  from  early  childhood,  has 
hardly  ceased  for  a  day  to  be  our  companion — which 
has  colored  our  imagination,  commanded  our  belief, 
impressed  our  thought,  and  steeped  our  language — 
which,  so  familiarized  to  us  by  long  intimacy,  has  be- 
come rather  a  friend  than  a  fiery  revelation — to  the 
proclamation  of  which,  as  containing  a  G-ospel  of 
Peace,  we  have  devoted  the  most  valued  of  our  years 
— and  to  the  illustration  of  which,  as  a  word  of  un- 
equaled  genius,  we  now  devote  those  pages,  commend- 
ing them  to  the  Great  Spirit  of  the  Book. 


THE  BARDS  OF  THE  BIBLE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

CIRCUMSTANCES   CREATING  AND  MODIFYING  OLD 
TESTAMENT   POETRY. 

The  admitted  principle  that  every  poet  is  partly  the  creator 
and  partly  tlie  creature  of  circumstances,  applies  to  the  Hebrew 
Bards,  as  to  others.  But  it  is  also  true  that  the  great  poet  is 
more  the  creator  than  the  creature  of  his  age,  and  of  its  influ- 
ences. And  this  must  with  peculiar  force  apply  to  those  for 
whom  we  claim  a  certain  supernatural  inspiration,  connected 
with  their  poetic  afflatus,  in  some  such  mysterious  way  as  the 
soul  is  connected,  though  not  identified,  with  the  electric  fluid 
in  the  nerves  and  brain.  What  such  writers  give  must  be  in- 
comparably more  than  what  they  get  from  their  country  or 
their  period.  Still  it  is  a  very  important  inquiry,  what  events 
in  Old  Testament  history,  or  what  influences  from  peculiar  doc- 
trines, from  Oriental  scenery,  or  from  the  structure  of  the  He- 
brew language  and  verse,  have  tended  to  awaken  or  modify 
their  strains,  and  to  bring  into  play  those  occasional  causes 
which  have  lent  them  their  mystic  and  divine  power  ?  This  is 
the  subject  of  the  present  chapter,  and  we  may  further  premise, 
that  whenever  even  poetic  inspiration  is  genuine,  it  never  de- 
tracts from  its  merit  to  record  the  occasions  which  gave  it  birth, 
the  sparks  of  national  or  individual  feeling  from  which  it  ex- 
ploded, or  the  influence  of  other  minds  in  lighting  its  flame, 


24  CIRCUMSTANCES  CRLATING  AND  MODIFYINa 

and  can  much  less  when  it  is  the  "  authentic  fire"  of  heaven,  of 
which  we  speak. 

The  first  circumstance  we  mention,  is  no  less  than  the  crea- 
tion itself,  as  it  appeared  to  the  Jewish  mind.  The  austere 
simphcity  of  that  remarkable  verse  of  Genesis,  "In  the  begin- 
ning God  created  the  heavens  and  the  earth,"  sounds  a  fitting 
keynote  to  the  entire  volume.  Never  shall  we  forget  the  emo- 
tion with  which  we  read  those  words  for  the  first  time  in  the 
original  tongue.  The  words  themselves,  perhaps  the  earliest 
ever  written — their  information  so  momentous — the  scene  to 
which,  in  their  rugged  simplicity,  they  hurried  us  away,  gave 
them  a  profound  and  almost  awful  interest ;  and  we  sat  silent 
and  motionless,  as  under  the  response  of  an  oracle  on  which  out 
destiny  depended.  Longinus  has  magnified  the  poetry  of  the 
divine  exclamation,  "  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light ;" 
but  on  our  feelings  the  previous  statement  had  a  greater  eflfect, 
throwing  us  back  into  the  gulf  of  ages,  and  giving  us  a  dim 
retrospect  of  gigantic  cycles  rolling  forward  in  silence.  The  his- 
tory of  the  creation  indeed  is  all  instinct  with  poetry.  As  includ- 
ing an  account  of  the  preparations  for  the  reception  of  man,  how 
beautifully  does  it  evolve.  How,  like  a  drama,  where  the  interest 
deepens  toward  the  conclusion,  does  it,  step  by  step,  awaken  and 
increase  our  attention  and  curiosity.  First,  the  formless  deep 
arises — naught  seen  but  undefined  and  heaving  waters,  and 
naught  heard  but  above  the  surge  the  broodings  of  the  Eternal 
Spirit.  Then  light  flashes  forth,  like  some  element  already  existing 
in  all  things,  though  vailed,  so  instantaneous  in  its  appearance. 
Then,  the  firmament  arises,  dividing  the  waters  from  the  waters. 
Then,  heaving  up  from  its  overhanging  seas,  the  dry  land  shows 
its  dark  earthy  substance,  to  bear  the  feet  of  man.  Then  in  the 
sky,  globes,  collecting  and  condensing  the  scattered  light,  shine 
forth  to  number  the  years  and  direct  the  steps  of  man.  Then 
the  waters,  under  the  genial  warmth,  begin  to  teem  with  life, 
and  the  earth  to  produce  its  huge  offspring,  and  to  send  up,  as 
"  in  dance,"  its  stately  and  fruit-bearing  trees,  to  feed  the  appe- 
tite and  relieve  the  sohtude  of  man.    And  then,  the  preparations 


OLD    TESTAMENT    POETRY.  25 

for  his  coming  being  complete,  lie  appears.  The  stage  having 
been  swept,  and  garnished,  and  lighted  up,  the  great  actor  steps 
forward.  "  And  on  the  sixth  day  God  said,  let  us  make  man 
in  our  own  image."  How  magnificent  these  preparations  !  how 
fine  their  gradations  !  and  how  deep  and  mystical  the  antithesis 
between  the  scale  on  which  they  had  been  conducted  and  the 
result  in  which  they  had  issued,  in  the  appearance,  amid  all 
that  vast  and  costly  theatre,  of  a  child  of  clay.  And  how  does 
the  contrast  swell,  instead  of  narrowing,  when  we  believe,  with 
the  geologists,  that  innumerable  centuries  had  in  these  prepara- 
tions been  expended !  The  impulse  given  to  the  imagination 
of  the  Jews,  through  their  conceptions  of  the  creation,  was 
great,  and  the  allusions  of  their  poets  to  it  afterward  are  nume- 
rous, Solomon,  for  instance,  in  his  personification  of  Wisdom, 
describes  it  in  language  lofty  as  that  of  Moses.  "  When  he  ap- 
pointed the  foundations  of  the  earth,  then  was  I  by  him,  as  one 
brought  up  with  him."  Job  abounds  in  reference  to  this  cardi- 
nal truth.  Isaiah,  speaking  in  the  person  of  God,  and  throwing 
down  a  gantlet  to  all  the  heathen  deities,  says,  "  I  have  made 
the  earth,  and  created  man  upon  it.  I,  even  my  hands,  have 
stretched  out  the  heavens."  Thus  does  this  primal  truth  or  fact 
of  Scripture  flash  down  light  and  glory  over  all  its  pages,  and  the 
book  may  be  said  to  stand  in  the  brightness  of  its  opening  verse. 
Another  event  teeming  with  poetry,  and  which  had  no  small 
effect  on  the  Jewish  imagination,  was  the  flood.  The  tradition 
of  a  flood  is  found  in  all  nations,  but  often  in  company  with 
ludicrous  images  and  circumstances  which  mar  its  sublimity. 
It  is  described  by  Moses  with  even  more  than  his  usual  bareness, 
and  almost  sterile  simplicity.  His  language  scarcely  ever  rises, 
save  when  he  speaks  of  the  "  windows  of  heaven  being  opened," 
above  the  level  of  prose;  not  another  figure  in  the  narrative 
confesses  his  emotion  at  the  sight  of  deluge  enwrapping  the 
globe — the  yell  of  millions  of  drowning  and  desperate  men  and 
animals  contending  with  the  surge  of  the  sea — the  mountains 
of  earth  overtopped  by  the  aspiring  waters — the  sun  retiring 
from  the  sight,  as  if  in  grief  and  forever — ^and,  amid  all  this 

B 


26  CIRCUMSTAITCES  CREATING  AND  MODIFYING 

assemblage  of  terrors,  the  one  vessel  rising  majestic  and  alone, 
through  whose  windows  look  forth  Seth's  children,  their  eyes 
dimmed  and  darkened  with  tears.  And  yet  the  bare  truth  of 
the  flood,  sown  in  the  hearts  of  the  Hebrews,  became  a  seed  of 
poetry.  The  flood  put  a  circle  of  lurid  glory  round  the  head  of 
their  God ;  it  awed  the  patriarchs  in  their  midnight  tents — it 
gave  a  new  charm  and  beauty  to  the  "  rainbow  which  encora- 
passeth  the  heavens  with  a  glorious  circle,  and  the  hands  of  the 
Most  High  have  bended  it."  It  brought  out  all  the  possible 
grandeur  of  the  element  of  water.  Frequent  are  the  allusions  to  it 
in  after  days.  "The  Lord,"  says  David,  "sittoth  upon  the  fl.oods," 
alluding  not  altogether  to  the  swellings  of  Jordan,  nor  to  the 
sweUings,  seen  from  Carmel,  of  the  Mediterranean,  but  to  that 
ocean  without  a  shore,  on  which  his  eye  saw  the  Jehovah  seated, 
his  wings  the  winds,  his  voice  the  thunder  of  the  sea-billows, 
his  feet  feathered  with  lightnings,  and  his  head  lost  in  the  immen- 
sity of  o'er-canopying  gloom.  Again,  saith  Isaiah,  in  the  name 
of  the  Almighty,  "this  is  as  the  waters  of  Noah  unto  me,  for 
as  I  have  sworn  that  the  waters  of  Noah  shall  go  no  more  over 
the  earth,  so  have  I  sworn  not  to  be  wroth  with  thee."  And, 
besides  other  allusions,  we  find  Peter  speaking  of  God  bringing 
in  a  "  flood  upon  the  world  of  the  ungodly."  Thus  do  the 
"  waters  of  Noah"  send  down  a  far  deep  voice,  which  is  poetry, 
into  the  depths  of  futurity ;  and  there  is  no  topic,  even  yet,  which, 
if  handled  with  genius,  is  so  sure  to  awaken  interest  and  emotion. 
Passing  over  the  events  connected  with  the  confusion  of 
tongues  and  the  dispersion  of  the  human  race — the  histories  of 
Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob — the  romantic  story  of  Joseph  and 
his  brethren — the  wondrous  phenomena  attending  the  departure 
of  Israel  from  Egypt,  we  pause  at  Sinai,  the  center  of  the 
ancient  system.  There  was  enacted  a  scene  fitted  to  produce, 
in  the  first  instance,  an  alarm  and  awe  inconsistent  with  the 
•sublime,  but  ultimately  to  create  of  itself  a  volcanic  stream  of 
national  imagination,  rising  from  the  roots  of  the  savage  hill. 
Sinai,  bare,  dark,  craggy,  in  itself,  surrounded  suddenly  by  a 
mantle  of  gloom,  and  crowned  above  all  other  hills  with  a  dia- 


OLD    TESTAMENT   POETRY.  2T 

dem  of  fire — a  fierce  wind  blowing  in  restless  eddies  aroimd  it 
— torrents  of  rain  descending  through  the  darkness — the  light- 
nings of  God  playing  upon  the  summit — thunders  crashing  in- 
cessantly— the  trumj)  which  shall  call  the  dead  to  judgment, 
sending  forth  a  preliminary  note,  and  causing  the  mountain  to 
thrill  and  tremble — and  heard  at  intervals,  above  all,  the  very 
voice  of  the  Eternal — the  millions  of  Israel  standing  silent  on 
the  plain,  awe  and  wonder  casting  a  shadow  over  their  faces — 
and,  amid  all  this,  one  lonely  man  going  up  the  hill,  and  quak- 
ing as  he  goes — the  utterance  of  the  fiery  law  from  amid  the 
gloom — the  Amen  of  the  tribes — the  seclusion  of  Moses  wdth 
Jehovah,  for  forty  days,  on  the  top  of  the  mount — the  finger  of 
God,  the  same  finger  which,  dipping  itself  in  glory,  had  touched 
the  firmament,  and  left  as  its  trace  the  sun,  writing  the  ten  pre- 
cepts on  the  two  tables — the  passing  (*f  the  Lord  before  Moses, 
as  he  hasted  and  threw  himself  on  the  ground — the  descent  of 
the  favored  man,  with  his  face  shining  out  the  tidings  where 
he  had  been — all  this  taken  together,  while  calculated  to  cast  a 
salutary  terror  down  to  remote  ages,  and  to  make  the  children, 
among  the  willows  of  Canaan,  to  tremble  at  the  name  of  Sinai, 
was  fitted,  too,  to  produce  a  peculiar  and  terrible  poetry.  We 
find,  accordingly,  the  shadow  of  Horeb  communicating  influence 
to  almost  all  the  Hebrew  prophets.  It  was  unquestionably  in 
David's  eye,  wdien  he  sung  that  highest  of  his  strains,  the  18th 
Psalm,  which  has  carried  our  common  metrical  versions  of  it  to 
unwonted  pitches  of  power  : — 

"  On  cherub  and  on  cherubim 
Full  royally  he  rode, 
And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 
Came  flying  all  abroad," 

It  was  in  Daniel's  view,  when  he  described  the  fiery  stream 
going  before  the  Ancient  of  Days.  The  prayer  of  Habakkuk 
is  a  description  of  the  same  scene.  "  God  came  from  Teman, 
and  the  Holy  One  from  Mount  Paran.  His  glory  covered  the 
heavens,  and  the  earth  was  full  of  his  praise. 


28  CIRCUMSTANCES    CREATING   AND    MODIFYING 

wlien  turning  his  back  on  the  mount  that  might  be  touched, 
seems  to  linger  in  admiration  of  its  grandeur,  and  his  descrip- 
tion of  it  is  full  of  jDoetrj.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that 
the  genius  of  the  race  was  kindled  at  the  fires  of  Sinai. 

AVe  mention,  as  another  powerful  stimulus  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  Jews,  the  peculiar  economy  of  that  peculiar  people. 
This,  what  with  the  thunders  amid  which  it  was  cradled — the 
meteors  which,  as  a  cloud  by  day,  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night, 
guided  and  guarded  it — the  miracles  which,  like  a  supernatural 
circle,  hedged  it  in — the  mysteries  of  its  tabernacle — the  un- 
earthly brightness  of  that  Shechinah  which  filled  its  holy  of 
holies — the  oracular  luster  shining  around  its  priests — the  pomp, 
the  solemnity,  and  the  minuteness  of  its  sacrifices — the  wailing 
cadences,  the  brisker  measures,  blended  wdth  the  awful  bursts 
of  its  minstrelsy — the  temple,  with  its  marble  and  gold,  its  pin- 
nacles turned,  like  the  fingers  of  suppliant  hands,  to  heaven — 
its  molten  sea,  and  bulls  of  brass — its  "carved  angels,  ever 
eager-eyed,"  shapes  of  celestial  sculpture — its  mercy-seat,  so 
overshadowed,  so  inviolable,  so  darkened,  amid  its  glories,  by 
a  penumbra  of  divine  anger — the  atmosphere  of  holiness  suf- 
fused, like  strange  sunshine,  over  every  bell  and  breastplate, 
candlestick  and  cherub — the  typical  character  which  filled  even 
the  solitudes  of  the  place  with  meaning,  and  shook  them  with 
silent  eloquence — the  feeling  of  expectancy  and  the  air  of  pro- 
phecy which  reigned  over  the  whole — all  this  exerted  an  influ- 
ence over  the  imagination  as  well  as  the  faith,  and  cast  a  more 
than  mortal  poetry  around  a  system  of  ceremonies  so  unique  and 
profound.  Hence  the  merest  details,  in  Leviticus  and  Exodus, 
of  these  rites,  become  instinct  with  imagination,  and  need 
neither  verse  nor  figure  to  add  to  their  naked  greatness. 

Among  the  doctrines  peculiar  to  the  Jews,  and  inspiring 
their  genius,  we  may  enumerate  the  unity  of  the  divine  nature, 
their  idea  of  the  divine  omnipresence,  their  expectation  of  a 
Messiah,  their  doctrine  of  a  millennium,  and  their  views  of  a 
future  state.  The  doctrine  of  divine  unity,  by  collecting  all  the 
scattered  rays  of  beauty  and  excellence,  from  every  quarter  of 


OLD    TESTAMENT    POETRY.  29 

the  universe,  and  coiicleiising  them  into  one  overpowering  con- 
ception, by  tracing  the  innumerable  rills  of  thought  and  feeling  to 
the  fountain  of  an  infinite  mind,  surpasses  the  most  elegant  and 
ethereal  polytheism  immeasurably  more  than  the  sun  does  the 
"  cinders  of  the  element."  However  beautiful  the  mythology 
of  Greece,  as  interpreted  by  Wordsworth — however  instinct  it 
was  with  imagination — although  it  seemed  to  breathe  a  super- 
natural soul  into  the  creation,  to  rouse  and  startle  it  all  into  life, 
to  fill  the  throne  of  the  sun  with  a  divine  sovereign,  to  hide  a 
JSTaiad  in  every  fountain,  to  crown  every  rock  with  an  Oread,  to 
deify  shadows  and  storms,  and  to  send  sweeping  across  the  waste 
of  ocean  a  celestial  emperor — ^it  must  yield  without  a  struggle 
to  the  thought  of  a  great  One  Spirit,  feeding  by  his  perpetual 
presence  the  lamp  of  the  universe,  speaking  in  all  its  voices,  lis- 
tening in  all  its  silence,  storming  in  its  rage,  reposing  in  its  calm, 
its  light-the  shadow  of  his  greatness,  its  gloom  the  hiding-place 
of  his  power,  its  verdure  the  trace  of  his  steps,  its  fire  the  breath 
of  his  nostrils,  its  motion  the  circulation  of  his  untiring  energies, 
its  warmth  the  effluence  of  his  love,  its  mountains  the  altars  of 
his  worship,  and  its  oceans  the  mirrors  where  he  beholds  his 
form,  "  glassed  in  tempests."  Compared  to  those  conceptions, 
how  does  the  fine  dream  of  the  Pagan  Mythus  melt  away — 
Olympus,  with  its  multitude  of  stately  celestial  natures,  dwindle 
before  the  solitary  immutable  throne  of  Jehovah — the  poetry 
as  well  as  the  philosophy  of  Greece  shrink  before  the  single 
sentence, "  Hear,  O  Israel,  the  Lord  our  God  is  one  Lord" — and 
Wordsworth's  description  of  the  origin  of  its  multitudinous  gods 
Igoks  tame  beside  the  mighty  lines  of  Milton — 

"The  oracles  are  dumb, 
N"o  voice  or  hideous  hum, 
Runs  tlirough  the  arched  roof,  in  words  deceiving. 
Apollo,  from  his  shrine, 
Can  no  more  divine, 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
'No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell. 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 


30  CIRCUMSTANCES    CREATING    AND    MODIFYING 

He  feels  from  Judah's  land, 
The  dreadful  Infant's  hand. 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn. 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside, 
Longer  dare  abide, 
Nor  Typhon  huge,  ending  in  snaky  t^vine. 
Our  Babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true. 
Can,  in  his  swaddling  bands,  control  the  damned  crew.'* 

Closely  connected  with  tliis  doctrine  of  divine  unity,  is  that 
of  divine  omnipresence.  To  the  Hebrews,  the  external  universe 
is  just  a  bright  or  black  screen  concealing  God.  All  things  are 
full  of,  yet  all  distinct  from,  him.  That  cloud  on  the  mountain 
is  his  covering ;  that  muttering  from  the  chambers  of  the  thunder 
is  his  voice  ;  that  sound  on  the  top  of  the  mulberry-trees  is  his 
"  going ;"  in  that  wind,  which  bends  the  forest  or  curls  the  clouds, 
he  is  walking ;  that  sun  is  his  still  commanding  eye — Whither 
can  they  go  from  his  Spirit  ?  whither  can  they  flee  from  his 
presence  ?  At  every  step,  and  in  every  circumstance,  they  feel 
themselves  God-inclosed,  God-filled,  God-breathing  men,  with 
a  spiritual  presence  lowering  or  smiling  on  them  from  the  sky, 
sounding  in  wild  tempest,  or  creeping  in  panic  stillness  across 
the  surface  of  the  earth  ;  and  if  they  turn  within,  lo  !  it  is  there 
also — an  "  Eye"  hung  in  the  central  darkness  of  their  own  hearts. 
Hence  the  muse  of  the  Hebrew  bard  is  not  Dame  Memory,  nor 
any  of  her  syren  daughters,  but  the  almighty,  all-pervading 
Spirit  himself,  who  is  at  once  the  subject,  the  auditor,  and  the 
inspirer  of  the  song. 

What  heart,  in  what  age  or  country,  has  not,  at  some  time 
or  other,  throbbed  in  the  expectation  of  a  Messiah,  a  "  Coming 
One,"  destined  to  right  the  wrongs,  stanch  the  wounds,  explain 
the  mystery,  and  satisfy  the  ideal,  of  this  wondrous,  weary, 
hapless,  and  "  unintelligible"  world — who  shall  reconcile  it  to 
itself,  by  giving  it  a  purer  model  of  life,  and  a  nobler  principle 
of  action — who  shall  form  a  living  link,  wedding  it  to  the  high 
and  distant  heaven — who  shall  restore  the  skies,  the  roses,  and 
the  hearts  of  Eden,  and  instruct  us,  by  his  plan  of  reconcilia- 


OLD   TESTAMENT   POETRY.  31 

tion,  that  the  fall  itself  was  a  stage  in  the  triumph  of  man  ?  Hu- 
manity has  not  only  desired,  but  has  cried  aloud  for  his  coming. 
The  finest  minds  of  the  Pagan  world  hav^e  expressed  a  hope,  as 
well  as  a  love  of  his  appearing  ;  it  might  indeed  be  proved  that 
this  "  Desire  of  all  Nations"  lies  at  the  foundation  of  all  human 
hope,  and  is  the  preserving  salt  of  the  world.  From  earth  to 
heaven,  the  question  was  for  ages  reverberated,  "  Who  is  worthy 
to  open  the  book,  and  to  loose  the  seals  thereof  V  And  for  ages, 
all  earnest  men  wept  much  because  the  volume  remained  shut. 
But  in  the  minds  of  the  Jews,  this  feeling  dwelt  with  peculiar 
intensity  and  concentration.  It  rendered  every  birth  a  possible 
epoch  ;  it  hung  a  spell  over  every  cradle.  The  Desire  of  all 
Nations  was,  in  a  profound  sense,  the  desire  of  Jewish  females. 
From  the  heart,  it  passed  naturally  into  the  imagination,  and 
from  thence  into  the  poetry  of  the  land,  which  is  rarely  so  sub- 
hme  as  when  picturing  tlie  character  and  achievements  of  the 
Desired  and  Expected  One.  This  desire,  in  what  singular 
circumstances  was  it  fulfilled  !  The  earth  was  at  rest  and  still. 
The  expectation  of  many  ages  had  come  to  its  height.  In  the 
hush  of  that  universal  silence,  w^e  may  imagine  the  hearts  of  all 
nations  panting  audibly,  with  strong  and  intolerable  longing. 
And  when  the  expectation  was  thus  at  the  fullest,  its  object  ar- 
rived. And  where  did  the  Desire  of  all  Nations  appear  ?  Did 
he  lift  up  his  head  in  the  palaces  of  Rome,  or  the  porticoes  of 
Athens  ?  No  ;  but  he  came  where  the  desire  was  beating  most 
strongly — to  the  core  of  the  great  heart  which  was  panting  for 
him — to  the  village  of  Bethlehem,  in  the  midst  of  Judea,  and 
the  neighborhood  of  Jerusalem.  And  how  came  he  ?  Was 
it  in  fire  and  glory,  robed  in  a  mantle  of  tempest,  and  with  em- 
broideries of  lightning  ?  No  ;  but  as  a  weeping  babe  !  "  To 
us  a  child'''  was  given.  And  all  who  liad  entered  into  the 
g\enuine  spirit  of  the  ancient  poetic  announcements,  felt  this  to 
be  "  very  good." 

The  doctrine  of  a  millennium  must  surely  have  been  a  pure 
emanation  from  Heaven.  As  a  mere  dream,  we  could  conceive 
it  crossing  the  brain  of  a  visionary,  or  quickening  the  eager  pen 


32  CIRCUMSTANCES    CREATING    AND    MODIFYING 

of  a  poet  as  lie  wrote  it  down.  But,  as  a  distinct,  prominent, 
and  fixed  prospect,  in  the  onward  view  of  the  philanthropist — 
as  any  thing  more  than  a  castle  in  the  clouds — it  seems  to  have 
been  let  down,  like  Jacob's  ladder,  from  a  higher  region.  Even 
granting  that  it  was  only  a  tradition  which  inspired  Virgil's 
Pollio,  it  was  probably  a  tradition  which  had  floated  from  above. 
To  the  same  region  we  may  trace  the  allusions  to  a  millen- 
nium, which  may  be  found,  more  or  less  distinctly,  in  the 
many  mythologies  of  the  world.  But  in  Scripture  alone  do 
we  find  this  doctrine  inwrought  with  the  whole  system,  per- 
vading all  its  books,  and,  while  thoroughly  severed,  on  the  one 
hand,  from  absurdity  and  mysticism,  expressed,  on  the  other,  in 
a  profusion  of  figure,  and  painted  in  the  softest  and  richest 
colors.  Did  the  idea  of  a  happy  world,  whether  communi- 
cated to  the  soul  of  Virgil  by  current  tradition,  or  caught  from 
the  hps  of  some  wandering  Jew,  or  formed  by  the  mere  projec- 
tion of  the  favorite  thought  of  a  golden  age  upon  the  canvas 
of  the  future,  raise  him  for  a  time  above  himself,  and  inspire  one 
strain  matchless  among  Pagan  poets  ?  What  a  provision,  then, 
must  have  been  made  for  the  production  of  a  world  of  poetry, 
from  the  thick  gleams  and  glimpses  of  distant  glory,  scattered 
over  the  pages  of  all  the  bards  of  Israel !  How  sublime  the  con- 
ception, in  its  own  original  fountains,  reposing  under  the  tree 
of  life,  the  leaves  of  which  are  for  the  healing  of  the  nations ! 
and  especially  as  we  find  it  flaming  around  the  lips  of  the 
prophets  of  God,  who,  seeing  in  the  distance  the  wolf  dwelling 
with  the  lambj  and  the  leopard  with  the  kid ;  the  mountain  of 
the  Lord's  house  exalted  above  the  mountains  and  established 
above  the  hills ;  the  New  Jerusalem  coming  down  from  God, 
as  a  bride  adorned  for  her  husband  ;  earth  uplifted  from  the 
neighborhood  of  hell  to  that  of  heaven  ;  the  smoke  of  its  every 
cottage  rising  like  the  smoke  of  an  altar ;  peace  brooding  on  its 
oceans  ;  righteousness  running  in  its  streams  ;  and  the  very  bells 
of  its  horses,  bearing  "  Hohness  to  the  Lord" — leaped  up  exult- 
ing at  the  sight,  and  sent  forward,  from  their  watch-towers,  a 
far  cry  of  recognition  and  enthusiasm,  "  Arise,  shine ;  for  thy 


OLD    TESTAMENT   POETRY.  S3 

light  is  come,  and  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  risen  upon  thee." 
"  Who  are  these  that  fly  as  a  cloud,  and  as  the  doves  to  their 
windows  ?"  "  The  sun  shall  be'  no  more  thy  light  by  day  ; 
neither  for  brightness  shall  the  moon  give  light  unto  thee.  Thy 
sun  shall  no  more  go  down,  neither  shall  thy  moon  withdraw  it- 
self, for  the  Lord  shall  be  thine  everlasting  light,  and  the  days  of 
thy  mourning  shall  be  ended."  Who,  but  writers  in  the  highest 
sense  inspired,  could  often  assume,  or  long  sustain,  such  strains 
as  these?  Who,  but  they,  could  keep  so  steadily  separate 
from  the  deep  clouds  of  the  present  a  prospect  so  distinct  and 
sublime  ?  Who,  uninfluenced  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord,  would 
have  dared,  not  merely  as  a  poetic  conception,  but  as  a  pro- 
phetical announcement,  to  predict  what  all  history  and  all  ex- 
perience would  seem  to  stamp  with  the  wildest  pnnt  of  LTtopia  ? 
"Few,  few  have  striven  to  make  earth  heaven,"  but  as  few%  un- 
enlightened from  on  high,  have  ever  long  grasped  or  detained 
the  brilliant  possibility.  It  seems,  at  least,  the  last  refinement 
of  philosophical  conjecture.  And  yet,  in  the  Hebrew  prophets, 
we  find  it  closing  every  vista,  irradiating  every  gloom,  lying, 
like  a  bright  western  heaven,  at  the  termination  of  every  pro- 
phetic day ;  coloring  the  gorgeous  page  of  Isaiah ;  gleaming 
through  the  willows  where  Jeremiah  had  hung  his  harp  ;  glaring 
on  the  wild  eye  of  Ezekiel,  who  turns  from  his  wheels,  "  so  high 
that  they  were  dreadful,"  to  show  the  waters  of  the  sanctuary 
becoming  an  immeasurable  and  universal  stream ;  mingling 
with  the  stern  denunciations  of  Micah  \  tinging  with  golden 
edges  the  dreams  of  Daniel ;  and  casting  transient  rays  of 
transcendent  beauty  amid  the  obscure  .and  troubled  tragedy  of 
the  Apocalypse. 

With  respect  to  a  future  state,  the  conceptions  of  the  heathens 
were  not  only  imperfect  and  false,  but  gross  and  coarse.  In  that 
dreary  Tartarus,  there  were  indeed  many  statuesque  forms  and 
noble  faces  marked  out  from  amid  the  general  haze,  and  visible 
in  the  leaden  light.  There  was  poetry  in  the  despairing  thirst 
of  Tantalus ;  poetry  in  the  eternal  stone,  wet  with  the  eternal 
sweat  of  Sisyphus ;  poetry  in  the  daughters  of  Danaus  filhng  up 


34  CIRCUMSTANCES    CREATING    AND    MODIFYING 

the  same  everlasting  sieve  ;  poetry  in  that  grim  figure  of  Ajax, 
silent  in  the  shades,  and  also  in  that  pale  form  of  Dido,  gliding 
from  the  e}' e  of  her  lover  into  the  gloom  ;  poetry  clustering 
round  the  rock  of  Theseus,  and  the  wheel  of  Ixion.  In  their 
pictures  of  Elysium,  too,  there  was  a  soft  and  melancholy  en- 
chantment, most  beauteous,  yet  most  rueful  to  feel.  It  was 
"  sunlight  sheathed."  It  was  heaven,  with  a  shade,  not  un- 
allied  to  earth,  vailing  its  brightness.  There  might  be,  to  quote 
Wordsworth  imitating  Virgil, 

*'  An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air, 
And  fields  invested  with  purpurea!  gleams, 
Climes  "which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 
Earth  owns,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey." 

But  surely  the  radiance  had  not  that  spirituality,  or  solemn 
beauty,  which  characterizes  our  heaven.*  The  agonies,  too, 
were  monotonous  attitudes  of  material  woe  ;  they  lacked  dignity 
and  relief;  sculptured  with  rude  power,  they  were  sculptured  in 
rock ;  their  line  was  too  uniform  and  too  black  ;  they  lacked 
those  redeeming  touches  which,  like  white  streaks  upon  marble, 
mingle  with,  and  carry  off,  the  uniform  intensity  of  gloom.  All 
wretchedness  lay  upon  them  ;  but  it  was  a  silent  not  an  eloquent 
misery.  Despair  looked  through  them  ;  but  it  was  dumb,  deaf, 
and  dead.  Eternity  brooded  over  the  whole ;  but  it  was  dull 
and  idle,  hke  the  calm,  sullen  face  of  a  marsh  or  moorland,  not 
the  living  look  of  a  mountain  or  of  the  sea.  There  is  no  change, 
no  "  lower  deep  conducting  to  a  yet  lower,"  in  a  descending 
series.  Intercourse  with  other  worlds  there  is  little  or  none. 
The  region  is  insulated  in  its  misery — "  beyond  the  beams  of 
noon,  and  eve's  one  star."  No  stray  angel  looks  down  sud- 
denly, hke  a  sunbeam,  into  its  darkness.  No  grand  procession 
comes  from  afar,  to  look  and  wonder  at  its  miseries.  It  is  a 
neglected  ruin,  rather  than  a  prison  of  pain.  Such  is  the  heathen 
hell,  as  discovered  to  us,  by  Virgil,  but  especially  by  Homer. 

*  We  speak  here  not  so  much  of  the  Jewish  as  of  the  Christian 
notions  of  the  future  state. 


OLD    TESTAMENT    POETRY.  35 

How  different,  and  how  much  more  striking,  the  ghmpses  in 
Scripture,  penciled,  as  through  chinks  in  the  wall  of  the  man- 
sion of  the  second  death  !  Its  locality  is  untold,  its  creation  and 
date  are  left  in  obscurity,  its  names  are  various — but  all  rather 
\7ails  than  discoveries  of  what  seems  elaborately  concealed.  It 
-s  hell,  the  hidden  or  sunken  place ;  it  is  Gehenna,  Tophet ;  it 
IS  a  smoke  ascending,  as  if  to  darken  the  universe ;  it  is  a  lake 
burning  with  fire  and  brimstone,  but  of  which  the  interior  is 
unseen  ;  it  is  a  pit  bottomless,  a  fire  unquenchable,  a  worm  un- 
dying, a  death — the  second  and  the  last ;  it  is  "  without,"  yet 
not  unvisited  or  unseen  ;  they  shall  be  tormented  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Lamb  and  the  holy  angels ;  they  shall  go  forth, 
and  look  on  the  carcasses  of  them  that  are  slain,  whose  worm 
dieth  not.  This  is  all,  or  nearly  all  we  know  of  it.  And  yet 
how  unspeakably  tremendous  !  Like  the  disjointed  words  upon 
the  wall  (in  Coleridge's  "  Dream")  taken  singly,  each  word  is  a 
riddle — put  them  together,  and  what  a  lesson  of  lurid  terror  do 
they  combine  to  teach  !  And  from  such  pregnant  expressions 
have  come  forth,  accordingly,  all  the  sublime  and  dreary  dreams 
of  after-poetry,  the  savage  sculpture  of  Dante,  Milton's  broad 
pictures,. Pollok's  bold  sketch,  and  the  whole  gallery  of  gloomy 
visions  which  may  be  found  in  our  great  religious  prose-authors, 
from  Jeremy  Taylor  to  Thomas  Aird. 

The  next  influence  we  mention,  as  operating  on  the  Hebrew 
poets,  is  the  climate  and  scenery  of  their  country.  To  be  sus- 
ceptible of  such  skyey  influences  is  one  main  distinction  between 
genius  and  mere  talent,  and  also  between  the  enthusiast  sfnd 
the  fanatic.  There  is  a  vulgar  earnestness  which,  while  address-, 
ing  a  multitude  amid  the  most  enchanting  scenery,  and  at  the 
spiritual  hour  of  evening,  would  feel  no  elevation,  but  bellow  on 
as  before,  susceptible  only  to  the  animal  sympathy  arising  from 
the  concourse  of  human  beings,  and  not  at  all  to  the  gradual 
shading  in  of  the  sky  over  that  sea  of  faces,  to  the  voice  of  the 
distant  streams,  and  to  the  upper  congregation  of  the  stars,  com- 
ing out,  as  if  they  too  would  listen  to  the  Gospel  of  glad  tidings. 
Not  thus  was  Paul  unaware  of  the  scene,  at  Mars  Hill,  as  he 


36  CIRCUMSTAXCES    CREATING    AND    MODIFYINa 

preached  Jesus  and  the  resurrection.  TSTot  thus  iixhfferent  was 
Edward  Irving  to  the  glories  of  the  Frith  of  Forth,  as  again  and 
again,  in  the  open  air  and  in  full  view  of  them,  "rolled  the 
rich  thunder  of  his  awful  voice,"  to  thousands  of  silent  men. 
Even  the  more  literal  soul  of  Whitefield  caught  occasionally  in 
such  scenes  a  glow  of  enthusiasm,  and  the  coarse  current  of  his 
thought  and  diction  was  tinged  with  a  gleam  of  poetry.  It  is 
vain  to  say  that  some  men  will,  nay,  ought  to  be  so  swallowed 
up  in  their  subject,  as  to  remember  nothing  besides.  Religion, 
on  the  contrary,  is  a  subject  which,  if  properly  presented,  will 
challenge,  as  its  own,  alike  the  splendors  of  earth  and  heaven, 
and  the  voice  of  the  true  poet-preacher  will  appear,  as  it  rises 
and  swells  with  the  theme,  worthy  of  concerting  with  the  eldest 
harmonies  of  nature.  Those  modes,  on  the  other  hand,  of  pre- 
senting rehgious  truth,  which,  amid  beautiful  scenery  and  seasons 
of  special  spiritual  interest,  seem  harsh,  hard,  unsuitable,  which 
jar  upon  the  musical  sweetness  and  incense  breathing  all  around, 
and  of  which  the  echo  sounds  from  above  like  a  scream  of 
laughter,  contradiction,  and  scorn,  are  therein  proved  to  be  im- 
perfect, if  not  false.  They  are  not  in  unison  with  the  spirit  of 
the  surrounding  universe,  but  are  rejected  and  flung  back  by  it 
as  foul  or  rabid  felsehoods. 

The  Hebrew  prophets  lived  in  the  eye  of  nature.  We  always 
figure  them  with  cheeks  embrowned  by  the  noons  of  the  East. 
The  sun  had  looked  on  them,  but  it  was  lovingly — the  moon 
had  "  smitten"  them,  but  it  was  with  poetry,  not  madness — 
they  had  drank  in  fire,  the  fire  of  Eastern  day,  from  a  hundred 
sources — from  the  lukevi^arm  brooks  of  their  land,  from  the  rich 
colors  of  their  vegetation,  from  their  mornings  of  unclouded 
brightness,  from  their  afternoons  of  thunder,  from  the  large  stars 
of  their  evenings  and  nights.  The  heat  of  their  climate  was 
strong  enough  to  enkindle  but  not  to  enervate  their  frames, 
inured  as  they  were  to  toil,  fatigue,  fasting,  and  frequent  travel. 
They  dwelt  in  a  land  of  hills  and  valleys,  of  brooks  and  streams, 
of  spots  of  exuberant  vegetation,  of  iron-ribbed  rocks  and  moun- 
tains— a  land,  on  one  side,  dipping  down  in  the  Mediterraneaa 


OLD    TESTAMENT    POETRY.  37 

Sea,  on  another,  floating  up  into  Lebanon,  and  on  the  others, 
edged  by  deserts,  teeming  at  once  with  dreadful,  scenery  and 
secrets — through  which  had  passed  of  old  time  the  march  of  the 
Almighty,  and  where  his  anger  had  left  for  its  memorials,  here, 
the  sandy  sepulcher  of  those  thousands  whose  carcasses  fell  in 
the  wilderness,  and  there,  a  whole  Dead  Sea  of  vengeance, 
lowering  amid  a  desolation,  fit  to  be  the  very  gateway  of  hell 
— standing  between  their  song  and  subject-matter,  and  such  a 
fiery  clime,  and  such  stern  scenery — the  Hebrew  bards  were 
enabled  to  indite  a  language  more  deeply  dyed  in  the  colors 
of  the  sun,  more  intensely  metaphorical,  more  faithfully  tran- 
scriptive  of  nature,  a  simpler,  and  yet  larger  utterance,  than 
ever  before  or  since  rushed  out  from  the  heart  and  tongue  of 
man. 

And  not  merely  were  there  thus  certain  general  features 
connected  with  the  leading  events  in  Old  Testament  history, 
with  the  peculiar  doctrines  of  the  Jews,  and  with  the  climate 
and  scenery  of  their  country,  which  secured  the  existence  of 
poetry,  but  the  very  construction  and  characteristics  of  the 
Hebrew  tongue  were  favorable  to  its  birth.  Destitute  of  the 
richness  and  infinite  flexibility  of  the  Greek,  the  artificial  state- 
liness  and  strength  of  the  Latin,  and  the  varied  resources  and 
borrowed  beauties  of  modern  languages,  Adam's  tongue — the 
language  of  the  early  giants  of  the  species — was  fitted,  beyond 
them  all,  for  the  purposes  of  lofty  poetry.  It  was,  in  the  first 
place,  as  Herder  well  calls  it,  an  abyss  of  verhs  ;  and  there  is  no 
part  of  speech  so  w^ell  adapted  as  the  verb  to  express  motion, 
energetic  action,  quick  transition,  and  strong  endurance.  This 
language  was  no  quiet  or  sullen  sea,  but  all  ahve,  speaking, 
■surging,  now  bursting  in  breaker,  and  now  heaving  in  long 
deep  swell.  Its  adjectives  were  borrowed  from  verbs,  served 
their  purposes,  and  did  their  work  ;  and,  though  barren  in  ab- 
stract terms,  it  was  none  the  less  adapted  for  the  purposes  of 
poetry ;  for  it  abounded  in  sensuous  terms — it  swarmed  with 
words  descriptive  of  the  objects  of  nature.  It  contains,  amid 
its  apparent  inopia  verborum,  more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty 


38  CIRCUMSTANCES    CREATING    AND    MODIFYING 

botanical  terms  ;  and,  then,  its  utterance,  more  than  that  of  any 
other  tongue,  was  a  voice  from  the  heart.  We  sometimes  hear 
orators  wlio  appear  to  speak  with  the  iungs,  instead  of  the  hps  ; 
but  the  Hebrews  heaved  up  their  rage  and  their  joy,  their  grief 
and  their  terror,  from  the  depths  of  their  hearts.  By  their  fre- 
quent use,  too,  of  the  present  tense,  they  have  unconsciously 
contributed  to  the  picturesque  and  powerful  effect  of  their 
writings.  This  has  quickened  their  every  page,  and  made  their 
words,  if  we  may  so  speak,  to  stand  on  end. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  objected  to  Hebrew  poetry,  that  it  has  no 
regular  rhythm,  except  a  rude  parallelism.  What  then  ?  Must 
it  be,  therefore,  altogether  destitute  of  music  ?  Has  not  the 
rain  a  rhythm  of  its  own,  as  it  patters  on  the  pane,  or  sinks  on 
the  bosom  of  its  kindred  pool  ?  Hath  not  the  wind  a  harmony, 
as  it  bows  the  groaning  woods,  or  howls  over  the  mansions  of 
the  dead  ?  Have  not  the  waves  of  ocean  their  wild  base  ? 
Has  not  the  thunder  its  own  "  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe  ?" 
Do  they  speak  in  rhyme?  Do  they  murmur  in  blank  verse? 
Who  taught  them  to  begin  in  Iambics,  or  to  close  in  Alexan- 
drines ?  And  shall  not  God's  own  speech  have  a  peculiar  note, 
no  more  barbarous  than  is  the  voice  of  the  old  woods  or  the 
older  cataracts  ? 

Besides,  to  call  parallelism  a  coarse  or  uncouth  rhythm,  be-- 
trays  an  ignorance  of  its  nature.  Without  entering  at  large 
on  the  subject  of  Hebrew  versification,  we  may  ask  any  one, 
who  has  paid  even  a  slight  attention  to  the  subject,  if  the 
effect,  whether  of  the  gradational  parallel,  in  which  the  second 
or  responsive  clause  rises  above  the  first,  like  the  round  of  a 
ladder,  as  in  the  1st  Psalm — 

"  Blessed  is  the  man 
That  hath  not  walked  in  the  counsel  of  the  ungodly, 
Nor  stood  in  the  way  of  sinners  : 
And  hath  not  sat  in  the  seat  of  the  scornful ;" 

or  the  antithetical  parallel,  in  which  two  lines  con-espond  with 
each  other,  by  an  opposition  of  terms  and  sentiments,  as  in  the 
words — 


OLD    TESTAMENT    POETRY.  39 

"  The  memory  of  the  just  is  blessed, 
But  the  name  of  the  wicked  shall  rot ;" 

or  the  constructive  parallel,  in  which  word  does  not  answer  to 
word,  nor  sentence,  as  equivalent  or  oj^posite,  but  there  is  a  cor- 
respondence and  equahty  between  the  different  propositions,  in 
the  turn  and  shape  of  the  whole  sentence,  and  of  the  construc- 
tive parts — noun  answering  to  noun,  verb  to  verb,  negative  to 
negative,  interrogation  to  interrogation,  as  in  the  19th  Psalm — 

"  The  law  of  the  Lord  is  perfect,  converting  the  soul ; 
The  testimony  of  the  Lord  is  sure,  making  wise  the  simple ;" 

or,  finally,  the  introverted  parallel,  in  which,  whatever  be  the 
number  of  lines,  the  first  runs  parallel  with  the  last,  the  second 
with  the  penultimate,  and  so  throughout,  such  as — 

"  My  son,  if  thine  heart  be  wise, 
My  heart  shall  rejoice,  even  mine ; 
Yea,  my  reins  shall  rejoice 
When  thy  lips  speak  right  things — " 

We  ask,  if  the  effect  of  all  these,  perpetually  intermingled  as 
they  are,  be  not  to  enliven  the  composition,  often  to  give  dis- 
tinctness and  precision  to  the  train  of  thought,  to  impress  the 
sentiments  upon  the  memor}^,  and  to  give  out  a  harmony, 
which,  if  inferior  to  rhyme  in  the  compression  produced  by  the 
difficulty  (surmounted)  of  uniting  varied  sense  with  recurring 
sound,  and  in  the  pleasure  of  surprise ;  and  to  blank  verse,  in 
freedom,  in  the  effects  produced  by  the  variety  of  pause,  and  in 
the  force  of  long  and  linked  passages,  as  well  as  of  insulated  lines, 
is  less  slavish  than  the  one,  and  less  arbitrary  than  the  other  ? 
Unlike  rhyme,  its  point  is  more  that  of  thought  than  of  lan- 
guage ;  unlike  blank  verse,  it  never  can,  however  managed,  de- 
generate into  heavy  prose.  Such  is  parallelism,  which  generally 
forms  the  differential  quality  of  the  poetry  of  Scripture,  although 
there  are  many  passages  in  it  destitute  of  this  aid,  and  which  yet 
in  the  spirit  they  breathe,  and  the  metaphors  by  which  they  are 
garnished,  are  genuine  and  high  poetry.    And  there  can  be  little 


40  CIRCUMSTANCES   CREATING  AND  MODIFYINa 

question,  that  in  the  parallelism  of  the  Hebrew  tongue  we  can 
trace  many  of  the  peculiarities  of  modern  writing,  and  in  it  find 
the  fountain  of  the  rhythm,  the  pomp,  and  antithesis,  which 
lend  often  such  grace,  and  always  such  energy,  to  the  style  of 
Johnson,  of  Junius,  of  Burke,  of  Hall,  of  Chalmers — indeed,  of 
most  writers  who  rise  to  the  grand  swells  of  prose-poetry. 

Ere  closing  this  chapter,  we  may  mention  one  other  curious 
use  of  parallelism  by  the  Jewish  poets.  As  it  is,  confessedly, 
the  key  to  the  tower  of  Hebrew  verse,  and  as,  in  one  species  of 
it,  between  every  two  distichs,  and  every  two  parts  of  a  sentence, 
there  is  an  alternation,  like  the  backward  and  forward  move- 
ments of  a  dance,  so  the  sacred  writers  keep  np  a  similar  inter- 
change between  the  vast  concave  above  and  the  world  below. 
Mark  this  in  the  history  of  the  creation.  At  first,  there  is  dark- 
ness above  and  darkness  below.  Then,  as  the  earth  is  enlight- 
ened, the  sky  is  illumined  too ;  the  earth  is  brought  forth  from 
the  grave  of  chaos  ;  the  heaven  is  uplifted  in  its  "  terrible  crys- 
tal ;"  and,  ere  the  earth  is  inhabited,  the  air  is  peopled.  Again, 
as  to  their  present  state,  the  heaven  is  God's  throne,  the  earth  his 
footstool — grandeur  sits  on  the  one,  insignificance  cowers  on  the 
other ;  power  resides  above  in  the  meteors,  the  storms,  the  stars, 
the  lightnings,  the  sunbeams — passive  weakness  shrinks  and 
trembles  below.  The  one  is  a  place,  nay,  a  womb  of  glory, 
from  which  angels  glide,  and  Deity  himself  at  times  descends. 
The  other  is  a  tomb,  an  Aceldama,  a  Golgotha  ;  and  yet,  though 
the  one,  in  com'parison  with  the  other,  be  so  groveling  and 
mean,  taken  in  connection  with  the  other,  it  catches  and  reflects 
a  certain  degree  of  glory.  It  has  no  light  in  itself,  but  the  sun 
condescends  to  shine  upon  it,  to  gild  its  streams  and  to  touch 
its  mountains,  as  with  the  finger  of  God.  It  is  a  footstool,  but 
it  is  God's  footstool.  It  is  a  tomb,  but  a  tomb  set  in  the 
blue  of  heaven.  It  has  no  power  in  itself,  but  it  witnesses 
and  feels  the  energies  of  the  upper  universe.  It  is  not  the  habi- 
tation of  demons,  or  angels,  or  God  :  but  angels  rest  their  feet 
upon  its  hills,  demons  walk  to  and  fro  through  its  wastes,  and 
God  has  been  heard  sometimes  in  its  groves  or  gardens,  in  the 


OLD    TESTAMENT    POETRY.  41 

cool  wind  of  the  day.  Hence,  while  righteousness  looks  down 
from  heaven,  truth  springs  from  earth.  Hence,  the  prophet, 
after  saying,  "  Give  ear,  O  ye  heavens  !  and  I  will  speak,"  adds, 
"  and  hear,  O  earth  !  the  words  of  my  mouth."  So  much  for 
this  mighty  prophetical  dance  or  parallelism  between  earth  and 
heaven."^" 

*  See,  on  this  subject,  Herder's  "  Spirit  of  Hebrew  Poetry." 


CHAPTER    11. 

GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS   OF   HEBREW   POETRY. 

At  the  hazard  of  retreading  here  and  there  our  own  steps  in  the 
Introduction,  we  must  speak  separately  of  the  general  character- 
istics of  Hebrew  poets.  To  the  first  we  intend  to  name  of  these, 
we  have  referred  already — it  is  their  figurative  language.  Like 
the  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake,  each  thought  "floats  double," 
— each  birth  is  of  twins.  It  is  so  with  all  high  thoughts,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  those  of  geometrical  abstraction.  The  -proof  of 
great  thoughts  is,  will  they  translate  into  figured  and  sensuous 
expression?  will  nature  recognize,  own,  and  clothe  them,  as 
if  they  were  her  own  ?  or  must  they  stand,  small,  shivering, 
and  naked,  before  her  unopened  door  ?  But  here  we  must  make 
a  distinction.  Many  thoughts  find,  after  beating  about  for, 
natural  analogies — they  strain  a  tribute.  The  thought  of  genius 
precedes  its  word,  only  as  the  flash  of  the  lightning  the  roar  of 
the  near  thunder ;  nay,  they  often  seem  identicaL  Now,  the 
images  of  Scripture  are  peculiarly  of  this  description.  The 
connection  between  them  and  their  wedded  thoughts  seems 
necessary.  With  this  is  closely  connected  the  naturalness  of 
Scripture  figure.  No  critical  reproach  is  more  common,  or  more 
indiscriminate,  than  that  which  imputes  to  writers  want  of  na- 
ture. For  nature  is  often  a  conventional  term.  What  is  as 
natural  to  one  man  as  to  breathe,  would  be,  and  seems,  to  an- 
other, the  spasm  of  imbecile  agony.  Consequently,  the  ornate 
writer  can  not  often  believe  himself  ornate,  can  not  help  thinking 
and  speaking  in  figure,  and  is  astonished  to  hear  elaboration  im- 
puted to  passages  which  have  been  literally  each  the  work  of  an 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW   POETRY.  43 

hour.  But  all  modern  styles  are  more  or  less  artificial.  Their 
lire  is  in  part  a  false  fire.  The  spirit  of  those  unnaturally  ex- 
cited ages,  rendered  feverish  by  luxuries,  by  stimulants,  by  un- 
certainties, by  changes,  and  by  raging  speculation,  has  blown 
sevenfold  their  native  ardor,  and  rendered  its  accurate  analysis 
difficult.  Whereas,  the  fire  of  the  Hebrews — a  people  living  on 
corn,  water,  or  milk — sitting  under  their  vine,  but  seldom  tast- 
ing its  juice — dwelling  alone,  and  not  reckoned  among  the  nations 
— ^surrounded  by  customs  and  manners  ancient  and  unchangeable 
as  the  mountains, — a  fire  fed  chiefly  by  the  still  aspects  of  their 
scenery,  the  force  of  their  piety,  the  influences  of  their  climate, 
the  forms  of  their  worship,  and  the  memories  of  their  past — was 
a  fire  as  natural  as  that  of  a  volcano.  The  figures  used  are  just 
the  burning  coals  of  that  flame,  and  come  forth  in  brief,  impet- 
uous, impatient  volleys.  There  is  scarcely  any  artifice  or  even 
art  in  their  use.  Hebrew  art  went  no  farther  than  to  construct 
a  simple  form  of  versification.  The  management  of  figures,  in 
what  numbers  they  should  be  introduced,  from  what  objects 
drawn,  to  what  length  expanded,  how  often  repeated,  and  how 
so  set  as  to  tell  most  powerfully,  was  beyond  or  beneath  it. 
Enough  that  the  crater  of  the  Hebrew  bosom  was  never  empty, 
that  the  fire  was  always  there  ready  to  fill  every  channel  pre- 
sented to  it,  and  to  change  every  object  it  met  into  itself. 

The  figures  of  the  Hebrews  were  very  numerous.  Their 
country,  indeed,  was  limited  in  extent,  and  the  objects  it  con- 
tained, consequently,  rather  marked  than  manifold.  But  the 
"  mind  is  its  own  place,"  and  from  that  land  flowing  with  milk 
and  honey,  what  a  rich  herbarium^  aviary^  menagei'ie,  have  the 
bards  of  the  Bible  collected  and  consecrated  to  God  !  We  re- 
call not  our  former  w^ord,  that  they  have  ransacked  creation 
in  the  sw^eep  of  their  genius  ;  for  all  the  bold  features  and  main 
elements  of  the  world,  enhanced,  too,  by  the  force  of  enthusiasm, 
and  shown  in  a  light  which  is  not  of  the  earth,  are  to  be  found 
in  them.  Their  images  are  never  forced  out,  nor  are  they 
sprinkled  over  the  page  with  a  chariness,  savoring  more  of 
poverty  than  of  taste,  but  hurry  forth,  thick  and  intertangled^ 


44  GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF   HEBREW   POETRY. 

like  sparks  from  the  furnace.  Each  figure,  too,  proceeding  as 
it  does,  not  from  the  playful  mint  of  fancy,  but  from  the  solemn 
forge  of  imagination,  seems  sanctified  in  its  birth,  an  awful  and 
holy,  as  well  as  a  lovely  thing.  The  flowers  laid  on  God's 
altar  have  indeed  been  gathered  in  the  gardens  and  wildernesses 
of  earth,  but  the  dew  and  the  divinity  of  Heaven  are  resting  on 
every  bud  and  blade.  It  seems  less  a  human  tribute  than  a 
selection  from  the  Godlike  rendered  back  to  God. 

We  name,  as  a  second  characteristic  of  Hebrew  poetry,  its 
simphcity.  This  approaches  the  degree  of  artlessness.  The 
Hebrew  poets  were,  indeed,  full-grown  and  stern  men,  but  they 
united  with  this  quality  a  certain  childlikeness,  for  which,  at 
least,  in  all  its  simplicity,  we  may  search  other  literatures  in 
vain.  We  find  this  in  their  selection  of  topics.  Subjects  ex- 
ceedingly dehcate,  and,  to  fastidious  civilization,  offensive,  are 
occasionally  alluded  to  with  a  plainness  of  speech  springing  from 
perfect  innocence  of  intention.  The  language  of  Scripture,  like 
the  finger  of  the  sun,  touches  uncleanness,  and  remains  pure. 
"  Who  can  touch  pitch,  and  not  be  defiled  ?"  The  quiet,  holy 
hand  of  a  Moses  or  an  Ezekiel  can.  The  proof  is,  that  none 
of  the  descriptions  they  give  us  of  sin  have  ever  inflamed 
the  most  inflammable  imagination.  Men  read  the  20th  chapter 
of  Leviticus,  and  the  23d  of  Ezekiel,  precisely  as  they  witness 
the  unwitting  actions  of  a  child ;  nay,  they  feel  their  moral  sense 
strengthened  and  purified  by  the  exposures  of  vice  which  such 
passages  contain.  The  Jewish  writers  manifest  this  simplicity, 
too,  in  the  extreme  width  and  homeliness  of  their  imagery. 
They  draw  their  images  from  all  that  interests  man,  or  that  bears 
the  faintest  reflection  of  the  face  of  God.  The  willow  by  the 
water-courses,  and  the  cedar  on  Lebanon — the  ant  and  the  levia- 
than— the  widow's  cruse  of  oil  and  Sinai's  fount  of  fire — the 
sower  overtaking  the  reaper,  and  God  coming  from  Teman  and 
from  Paran — Jael's  tent-nail,  and  Elijah's  fiery  chariot — boys 
and  girls  playing  in  the  streets  of  Jerusalem — and  those  angels 
that  are  spirits,  and  those  ministers  that  are  flames  of  fire  ;  yea, 
meaner  obiects  than  any  of  these  are  selected  impartially  to 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW    POETRY.  45 

illustrate  the  great  truths  which  are  the  subjects  of  their  song. 
The  path  of  every  true  poet  should  be  the  path  of  the  sun  rays, 
which,  secure  in  their  own  purity  and  directness,  pass,  fearless  as 
the  spirit  of  a  child,  through  all  deep,  dark,  intricate,  or  unholy 
places — equally  illustrate  the  crest  of  a  serpent  and  the  wing  of 
a  bird — pause  on  the  summit  of  an  ant-hillock,  as  on  the  brow 
of  Mont  Blanc — take  up  as  a  "  little  thing"  alike  the  crater  and 
the  shed  cone  of  the  pine — and  after  they  have,  in  one  wide  char- 
ity, embraced  all  shaped  and  sentient  things,  expend  their  waste 
strength  and  beauty  upon  the  inane  space  beyond.  Thus  does  the 
imagination  of  the  Hebrew  bard  count  no  subject  too  low,  and 
none  too  high,  for  its  comprehensive  and  incontrollable  sweep. 
Unconsciousness  we  hold  to  be  the  highest  style  of  simplicity 
and  of  genius.  It  has  been  said,  indeed,  by  a  high  authority 
(the  late  John  Sterling),  that  men  of  genius  are  conscious,  not 
of  what  is  peculiar  in  the  individual,  but  of  what  is  universal 
in  the  race  ;  of  what  characterizes  not  a  man,  but  Man — not 
of  their  own  individual  genius,  but  of  God,  as  moving  within 
their  minds.  Yet,  what  in  reality  is  this,  but  the  unconscious- 
ness, for  which  we  would  contend  ?  When  we  say  that  men 
of  genius,  in  their  highest  moods,  are  unconscious,  we  mean, 
not  that  these  men  become  the  mere  tubes  through  which 
a  foreign  influence  descends,  but  that  certain  lofty  emotions 
or  ideas  so  fill  and  possess  them,  as  to  produce  temporary  for- 
getfulness  of  themselves,  except  as  the  passive  though  intel- 
ligent instruments  of  the  feeling  or  the  thought.  It  is  true, 
that  afterward  self  may  suggest  the  reflection — "  the  fact  that 
we  have  been  'selected  to  receive  and  convey  such  melodies 
proves  our  breadth  and  fitness ;  it  is  from  the  oak,  not  the 
reed,  that  the  wind  elicits  its  deepest  music."  But,  in  the 
first  place,  this  thought  never  takes  place  at  the  same  time 
with  the  true  afflatus,  and  is  almost  inconsistent  with  its 
presence.  It  is  a  mere  after-inference ;  an  inference,  secondly, 
which  is  not  always  made ;  nay,  thirdly,  an  inference  which 
is  often  rejected,  when  the  poet  off"  the  stool  feels  tempted  to 
regard  with  suspicion  or  shuddering  disgust  the  results  of  his 


40  GENEHAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW    POETRY. 

raptured  hour  of  inspiration.  Milton  seems  to  have  shrunk 
back  at  the  retrospect  of  the  height  he  had  reached  in  the 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  and  preferred  his  "  Paradise  Regained." 
Shakspeare,  on  the  other  hand,  having  wrought  his  tragic 
miracles  under  a  more  entire  self-abandonment,  becomes,  in 
his  Sonnets,  owinsj  to  a  reflex  act  of  sac^acity,  aware  of  what 
feats  he  had  done.  Bunyan  is  carried  on  through  all  the 
stasfes  of  his  immortal  Pilo-rimao-e  like  a  child  in  the  leadins^- 
strings  of  his  nurse  ;  but,  after  looking  back  upon  its  com- 
pleted course,  begins,  with  all  the  harmless  vanity  of  a  child 
(see  his  prefatory  poem  to  the  second  part),  to  crow  over  the 
achievement.  Thus  all  gifted  spirits  do  best  when  they  "  know 
not  what  they  do."     The  boy  Tell 

"  "Was  great,  nor  knew  how  great  he  was." 

But,  if  this  be  true  of  men  of  genius,  it  is  still  more  char- 
acteristic of  the  Bards  of  the  Bible  ;  for  they  possess  perfect 
passive  reception  in  the  moment  of  their  utterance,  and  have 
given  no  symptoms  of  that  after  self-satisfaction  wdiich  it  were 
hard  to  call,  and  harder  to  distinguish  from,  literary  vanity.  The 
head  reels  at  the  thought  of  Isaiah  weighing  his  "  Burdens"  over 
ao-ainst  the  odes  of  Deborah  or  David  ;  or  of  Ezekiel  measuring 
his  intellectual  stature  with  that  of  Daniel.  Like  many  even- 
ing rivers  of  different  bulks  and  channels,  but  descending  from 
one  chain  of  mountains,  swollen  by  one  rain,  and  meeting  in 
one  valley,  do  those  mighty  prophets  lift  up  their  unequal, 
unemulous,  unconscious,  but  harmonious  and  heaven-seeking 
voices. 

We  notice  next  the  boldness,  which  is  not  inferior  to  the 
beauty  of  their  speech.  They  use  liberties,  and  dare  darings, 
■which  make  us  tremble.  One  is  reminded,  while  reading 
their  words,  of  the  unhinged  intellect  of  the  aged  King  of 
England,  loosened  from  all  law,  delivered  from  all  fear,  having 
cast  off  every  weight  of  custom,  conventionalism,  even  reason, 
ranging  at  large,  a  fire-winged  energy,  free  of  the  universe, 
exposing  all  the   abuses  of  society,  and  asking  strange  and 


GERNRAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW    POETRY.  47 

unbidden  questions  at  the  Deity  himself.  Thus,  not  in  frenz}% 
but  in  the  height  of  the  privilege  of  their  peculiar  power,  do 
the  Hebrew  Prophets  often  invert  the  torrent  of  their  argument 
and  expostulation,  curving  it  up  from  earth  to  heaven — from 
Man  to  God.  Hear  the  words  of  Jeremiah — "  O  the  Hope  of 
Israel,  the  Savior  thereof  in  time  of  trouble,  why  shouldst 
thou  be  as  a  stranger  in  the  land,  and  as  a  wayfaring  man, 
that  turneth  aside  to  tarry  for  a  night  ?  Why  shouldst  thou 
be  as  a  man  astonished,  as  a  mighty  man  that  can  not  save  ? 
Do  not  abhor  us,  for  thy  name's  sake.  Do  not  disgrace  the 
throne  of  thy  glonjP  Or  hear  Job — "  I  know  now  that  God 
hath  overthrown  me,  and  hath  compassed  me  with  his  net. 
Behold,  I  cry  out  of  ivrong^  but  I  am  not  heard.  I  cry  aloud 
but  there  is  no  judgment.  Why  do  ye  persecute  me  as  God, 
and  are  not  satisfied  with  my  flesh  ?"  Or  listen  to  Jonah's 
irony,  thrown  up  in  the  very  nostrils  of  Jehovah — "I  knew 
that  thou  art  a  gracious  God,  and  merciful,  slow  to  anger,  and 
of  great  kindness,  and  repentest  thee  of  the  evil ;  therefore,  now, 
O  Lord,  take,  I  beseech  thee,  my  life  from  me."  These  ex- 
pressions, amid  many  similar,  suggest  the  memory  of  those 
sublimest  of  uninspired  words — 

"  Ye  heavens, 
If  ye  do  love  old  men,  if  yonr  sweet  sway 
Hallow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old, 
Make  it  your  cause,  avenge  me  of  my  daughters." 

Surely,  there  is  in  such  words  no  irreverence  or  blasphemy. 
I^ay,  on  those  moments,  when  prayer  and  prophecy  transcend 
themselves,  when  the  divine  within,  by  the  agony  of  its  ear- 
nestness, is  stung  up  almost  to  the  measure  and  the  stature  of 
the  divine  above — when  the  soul  rises  in  its  majestic  wrath, 
like  "  thunder  heard  remote" — is  it  not  then  that  men  have 
reached  all  but  their  highest  point  of  elevation  possible  to  them 
on  earth,  and  felt  as  if  they  saw 

"  God  face  to  face,  nor  yet  were  blasted  by  his  brow  V 


48  GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW    POETRY. 

Very  different,  however,  this  sjairit,  from  that  of  some  modern 
poets,  wlio  have 

"  Rushed  in  -where  angels  fear  to  tread  •" 

and,  under  the  mask  of  fiction,  have  taken  the  opportunity  of 
venting  their  spleen  or  personal  disgust  in  the  face  of  God. 
Without  entering  on  the  great  enigma  of  the  "  Faust,"  or  ven- 
turing to  deny  that  Goethe's  real  purpose  was  reverence,  we 
question  much  if  the  efifect  of  his  opening  scenes  in  heaven,  be 
not  to  produce  a  very  opposite  and  pernicious  feeling.  Byron, 
again,  at  one  tim«  stands  in  the  august  presence-chamber,  like 
a  sulky,  speechless  fiend,  and,  at  another,  asks  small  uneasy 
questions,  like  an  ill-conditioned  child.  Dante  and  Milton  alone, 
on  this  high  platform,  unite  a  thorough  consciousness  of  them- 
selves, with  a  profound  reverence  for  him  in  whose  presence 
they  stand ;  they  bend  before,  but  do  not  shrivel  up  in  his 
sight ;  they  come  slowly  and  softly,  but  do  not  steal,  into  his 
presence.  We  must  not  stop  to  do  more  than  allude  to  those 
modern  caricaturists  of  Milton  and  Byron,  who,  in  the  guise  of 
prodigious  pietism,  display  a  self-ignorance  and  self-conceit 
which  are  almost  blasphemy,  and  who,  as  their  plumes  vain- 
gloriously  bristle  up  and  broaden  in  the  eye  of  Deity,  and  as 
their  harsh  ambitious  scream  rises  in  his  ear,  present  a  spectacle 
which  we  know  not  whetlier  to  call  more  ludicrous  or  more 
horrible. 

But  the  boldness  of  the  Hebrew  bards,  which  we  panegyrize, 
extends  to  more  than  their  expressions  of  religious  emotion — ^it 
extends  to  all  their  sentiment,  to  their  style,  and  to  their  bear- 
ing. "  They  know  not  to  give  flattering  titles ;  in  so  doing," 
they  feel  "  that  their  Maker  would  soon  take  them  away."  With 
God  vertical  over  their  head  in  all  their  motions,  miserable 
courtiers  and  sycophants  they  would  have  made,  even  if  such 
base  avenues  to  success  had  been  always  open  before  them. 
They  are  the  stern  rebukers  of  wickedness  in  high  places,  the 
unhired  advocates  of  the  oppressed  and  the  poor ;  and  fully  do 
they  purchase  a  title  to  the  charge  of  being  "  troublers  of  Israel," 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW    POETRY,         49 

disturbing  it  as  the  hurricane  the  elements  and  haunts  of  the 
pestilence.  All  classes,  from  the  King  of  Samaria  to  the  drun- 
kard of  Ephraim — from  the  Babylonian  Lucifer,  son  of  the 
morning,  to  the  meanest,  mincing,  and  wanton-eyed  daughter  of 
Zion,  with  her  round  tire,  like 'the  moon — kings,  priests,  peas- 
antry, goldsmiths,  and  carpenters — men  and  women,  country- 
men and  foreigners,  must  listen  and  tremble,  when  they  smite 
with  their  hand  and  stamp  with  their  foot.  In  them  the  moral 
conscience  of  the  people  found  an  incarnation,  and  stood  at 
the  corner  of  every  street,  to  deplore  degeneracy,  to  expose 
imposture,  to  blast  the  pretenses  and  the  minions  of  despotism, 
to  denounce  every  kind  and  degree  of  sin,  and  to  point,  with  a 
finger  which  never  shook,  to  the  unrepealed  code  of  Moses,  and 
to  the  law  written  on  the  fleshly  tablets  of  the  heart,  as  the 
standards  of  rectitude.  Where,  in  modern  ages,  can  we  find  a 
class  exerting  or  aspiring  to  such  a  province  and  such  a  power  ? 
Individuals  of  prophetic  mood  we  have  had  and  have.  We  have 
had  a  Milton,  "  wasting  his  life"  in  loud  or  silent  protest  against 
that  age  of  "  evil  days  and  evil  tongues"  on  which  he  had  fallen. 
We  have  had  a  Cowper,  lifting  up  "Expostulations,"  not  un- 
heard, to  his  degraded  country.  We  have  had  an  Edward 
Irving,  his  "  neck  clothed  with  thunder,"  and  his  loins  girt  with 
the  "spirit  and  the  povv^er of  Elias,"  pealing  out  harsh  truth,  till 
he  sank  down,  wearied  and  silent,  in  death.  We  have  had  a 
poor,  bewildered  Shelly,  with  eyes  open  to  the  disease,  shut  to 
the  true  remedy,  sincere,  beautiful,  and  lost,  as  a  lunatic  angel, 
yet  with  such  melody  in  many  of  his  words,  that  all  men  wept 
to  hear  them.  We  have  still  a  Thomas  Carlyle,  who,  from  the 
study,  where  he  might  have  trained  himself  for  a  great  artist, 
has  come  forth,  and,  standing  by  the  w^ayside,  has  uttered  the 
old  laws  of  justice  and  of  retribution,  with  such  force  and  ear- 
nestness that  they  seem  new  and  burning  "  burdens,"  as  if 
from  the  mountains  of  Israel.  But  we  have  not,  and  never  have 
had,  a  class,  anointed  and  consecrated  by  the  hand  of  God  to  the 
utterance  of  eternal  truth,  as  immediately  taught  them  from  be- 
Jiind  and  aSoi^e-^speaking,  moving,  looking,  gesticulating,  and 

Q 


50  GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW   POETRY. 

acting,  "as  they  were  moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost."  Our  poets 
have,  in  general,  been  beautiful  mirrors  of  the  beautiful,  elegant 
and  tuneful  minstrels  that  could  play  well  on  an  instrument, 
and  that  were  to  the  world  as  a  "  very  lovely  song," — what  else 
our  Rogerses  and  Moores  ? — not  men  persecuted  and  chased  into 
action  and  utterance,  by  the  apparition  behind  them  of  the 
true.  Our  statesmen,  as  a  class,  have  been  cold  temporizers, 
mistaking  craft  for  wisdom,  success  for  merit,  and  the  putting 
off  the  evil  day  for  success.  Our  mental  philosophers  have  done 
little  else  than  translate  into  ingenious  jargon  the  eldest  senti- 
ments and  intuitive  knowledge  of  humanity — they  have  taught 
men  to  lisp  of  the  Infinite  by  new  methods,  and  to  babble  of  the 
Eternal  in  terms  elaborately  and  artistically  feeble.  Our  preach- 
ers, as  a  body,  have  been  barely  faithful  to  their  brief,  and  they 
have  found  that  brief  in  the  compass  of  a  confession,  rather  than 
in  the  pages  of  the  Bible,  shown  and  expounded  in  the  light  of 
the  great  God-stricken  soul  within.  But  our  prophets,  where 
are  they  ?  Where  many  who  resemble  those  wild,  wandering, 
but  holy  flames  of  fire,  which  once  ran  along  the  highways, 
the  hills,  and  the  market-places  of  Palestine  ?  Instead,  what 
find  we  ?  For  the  most  part,  an  assortment  of  all  varieties  of 
scribbling,  scheming,  speculating,  and  preaching  machines,  the 
most  active  of  whose  movements  form  the  strongest  antithesis 
to  true  life.  Even  the  prophetic  men  among  us  display  rather 
the  mood  than  the  insight  of  prophecy — rather  its  fire  than  its 
light,  and  rather  its  fury  than  its  fire — rather  a  yearning  after, 
than  a  feehng  of  the  stoop  of  the  descending  God.  We  are 
compelled  to  take  the  complaint  of  the  ancient  seer,  with  a  yet 
bitterer  feeling  than  his — 

"  Our  signs  we  do  not  no-w  behold 
There  is  not  us  among 
A  prophet  more,  nor  any  one 
That  knows  the  time  how  long." 

And  we  must  even  return,  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  those  bards  of 
Israel,  who,  apart  from  their  supernatural  pretensions — as  teach- 
ers, as  poets,  as  truthful  and  earnest  men— stand  as  yet  alone, 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS   OF    HEBREW    POETRY.         51 

'  unsurmounted  and  unapproached — tlie  Himalayan  mountains 
of  mankind. 

Speaking  out  fearless  sentiments,  tlieir  language  is  "  loud  and 
bold."  It  abounds  in  personifications,  interrogations,  apos- 
trophes, hyperboles,  sudden  and  violent  transitions,  figures  be- 
gun to  be  bi'oken  off,  fierce,  insulated,  and  ragged  exclamations, 
all  those  outlets  of  strong  emotion  which  rhetoric  has  since  been 
occupied  in  measuring  and  squaring.  It  is  a  compound  of  the 
language  of  poetry,  oratory,  and  prayer.  Its  vehemence,  ar- 
dor, simplicity,  picturesque  and  poetic  character,  as  well  as  its 
divine'  worth,  have  carried  it  safe  through  every  ordeal  of  trans- 
lation ;  it  has  mixed  with  the  stream  of  every  language  unin- 
jured, nay,  has  finely  colored  the  literary  style  of  Europe. 
The  charm  which  Scripture  quotation  adds  to  writing,  let  those 
tell  who  have  read  Milton,  Bunyan,  Burke,  Foster,  Southey, 
Croly,  Carlyle,  Macaulay,  yea,  and  even  Byron,  all  of  whom 
have  sown  their  pages  with  this  "  orient  pearl,"  and  brought 
thus  an  impulse  from  divine  inspiration,  to  add  to  the  effect  of 
their  own.  Extracts  from  the  Bible  always  attest  and  vindicate 
their  origin.  They  nerve  what  else  in  the  sentences  in  which 
they  occur  is  pointless  ;  they  clear  a  space  for  themselves,  and 
cast  a  wide  glory  around  the  page  where  they  are  found. 
Taken  from  the  classics  of  the  heart,  all  hearts  vibrate  more  or 
less  strongly  to  their  voice.  It  is  even  as  David  felt  of  old  to- 
ward the  sword  of  Goliath,  when  he  visited  the  high-priest,  and 
said,  "There  is  none  like  that,  give  it  me;"  so  writers  of  true 
taste  and  sympathies  feel  on  great  occasions,  when  they  have 
certain  thoughts  and  feelings  to  express,  a  longing  for  that  sharp 
two-edged  sword,  and  an  irresistible  inclination  to  cry,  "  None 
like  that,  give  it  us  ;  this  right  Damascus  blade  alone  can  cut 
the  way  of  our  thought  into  full  utterance  and  victory." 

And  did  the  bearing  of  those  inspired  men  correspond  with, 
their  sentiments  and  speech  ?  It  did.  The  Hebrew  prophet, 
in  his  highest  form,  was  a  solitary  and  salvage  man,  residing 
with  lions,  when  he  was  not  waylaying  kings,  on  whose  brow 
the  scorching  sun  of  Syria  had  charactered  its  fierce  and  swarthy 


52  GENERAL   CHARACTERISTICS    OF   HEBREW   POETRY. 

hue,  and  whose  dark  eye  swam  with  a  fine  insanity,  gathered 
from  sohtary  communings  with  the  sand,  the  sea,  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  sky,  as  well  as  with  the  hght  of  a  divine  aflflatus. 
He  had  lain  in  the  cockatrice's  den  ;  he  had  put  his  hand  on  the 
hole  of  the  asp  ;  he  had  spent  the  night  on  lion-surrounded 
trees,  and  slept  and  dreamed  amid  their  hungry  roar ;  he  had 
swam  in  the  Dead  Sea,  or  haunted,  like  a  ghost,  those  dreary 
caves  which  lowered  around  it ;  he  had  drank  of  the  melted  snow 
on  the  top  of  Lebanon ;  at  Sinai,  he  had  traced  and  trod  on  the 
burning  footprints  of  Jehovah  ;  he  had  heard  messages  at  mid- 
night, which  made  his  hair  to  arise,  and  his  skin  to  creep  ;  ho 
had  been  wet  with  the  dews  of  the  night,  and  girt  by  the 
demons  of  the  wilderness ;  he  had  been  tossed  up  and  down, 
like  a  leaf,  upon  the  strong  and  veering  storm  of  his  inspira- 
tion. He  was  essentially  a  lonely  man,  cut  oflf,  by  gulf  upon 
gulf,  from  tender  ties  and  human  associations.  He  had  no 
home ;  a  wife  he  might  be  permitted  to  marry,  but,  as  in  the 
case  of  Hosea,  the  permission  might  only  be  to  him  a  curse,  and 
to  his  people  an  emblem,  and  when  (as  in  the  case  of  Ezekiel) 
her  death  became  necessary  as  a  sign,  she  died,  and  left  him  in 
the  same  austere  seclusion  in  which  he  had  existed  before.  The 
power  which  came  upon  him  cut,  by  its  fierce  coming,  all  the 
threads  which  bound  him  to  his  kind,  tore  him  from  the  plow, 
or  from  the  pastoral  solitude,  and  hurried  him  to  the  desert,  and 
thence  to  the  foot  of  the  throne,  or  to  the  wheel  of  the  triumphal 
chariot.  And  how  startMng  his  coming  to  crowned  or  conquer- 
ing guilt !  Wild  from  the  wilderness,  bearded  like  its  lion- 
lord  ;  the  fury  of  God  glaring  in  his  eye ;  his  mantle  heaving 
to  his  heaving  breast ;  his  words  stern,  swelling,  tinged  on  their 
edges  with  a  terrible  poetry ;  his  attitude  dignity ;  his  gesture 
power — how  did  he  burst  upon  the  astonished  gaze ;  how  swift 
and  solemn  his  entrance  ;  how  short  and  spirit-like  his  stay ; 
how  dreamy,  yet  distinctly  dreadful,  the  impression  made  by  his 
words  long  after  they  had  ceased  to  tingle  on  the  ears  ;  and  how 
mysterious  the  solitude  into  which  he  seemed  to  melt  away  ! 
Poet,  nay  prophet,  were  a  feeble  name  for  such  a  being.    He 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW    POETRY.  53 

was  a  momentary  incarnation — a  meteor  kindled  at  the  eye,  and 
blown  on  the  breath,  of  the  Eternal. 

To  much  of  this  description  all  the  prophets  answer ;  but  we 
have  had  in  our  eye  principally  Elijah,  whom  God  testified  to  be 
the  greatest  of  the  family,  by  raising  him  to  heaven.  Sudden 
as  a  vision  of  the  night,  he  stands  up  before  Ahab,  the  evil  King 
of  Israel,  and  the  historian  no  more  thinks  of  recounting  his  an- 
cestry, than  he  would  of  tracing  that  of  a  dream.  He  delivers 
his  message,  and  instantly  retires  from  the  scene.  We  see  him, 
however,  a  little  afterward,  in  a  poor  widow's  dwelling ;  and 
lo  !  he  breathes  upon  her  handful  of  meal,  and  blesses  her  cruse 
of  oil,  and  they  are  multiplied  a  thousandfold  ;  and  when  death 
stops  the  dearer  fountain  of  her  son's  life,  he  has  but  to  bow 
himself  three  times  upon  the  child,  and  the  spring  shut  up  softly 
opens  again.  He  appears  after  this  on  Carmel — meet  pedestal 
for  a  statue  so  sublime !  He  had  previously  burst  a  second 
time  into  Ahab's  presence,  and,  careless  of  the  exclamation, 
"  Art  thou  he  that  troublest  Israel  ?"  had  challenged  him,  and 
Baal,  his  god,  and  Baal's  prophets,  four  hundred  and  fifty,  and 
the  proj^hets  of  the  groves,  four  hundred,  to  meet  him  on  Car- 
mel, and  have  the  question  of  the  land  and  of  the  age — is  Baal 
or  is  Jehovah  God  ? — there  decided,  by  an  appeal  to  the  ancient, 
the  chainless,  the  impartial  element  of  fire.  It  is  the  question 
of  this  age,  too  !  Show  us  the  fire  of  heaven,  still  burning  and 
vestal,  in  any  church,  and  it  sufficeth  us  ;  for  Christ  came  to 
send  fire  upon  earth,  and  what  will  we,  if  it  have  gone  out 
in  white  and  barren  ashes  ?  The  God  that  answereth  by  fire 
answered  Elijah,  and  the  sun,  his  archer,  loosened  a  ray  which 
consumed  burnt-sacrifice,  wood,  stones,  dust,  and  licked  up  the 
water  that  was  in  the  trench.  We  see  him  next,  a  girt  and 
glorious  homicide,  standing  at  the  brook  Klshon,  and  th^-e,  with 
knife  moving  to  the  music  of  God's  voice,  slaying  the  false  pro- 
phets, "  heaps  upon  heaps."  We  again  find  him  compeUing 
clouds  and  rain  from  the  brassy  sky,  and,  "  through  fire  and 
water,"  running  before  Ahab's  chariot,  to  the  entrance  of  Jez- 
reel.     We  follow  him,  then,  a  fugitive  from  Jezebel's  vengeance, 


54  GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW    POETRY. 

on  liis  way  toward  Horeb,  the  mount  of  God  ;  fed  by  an  angel ; 
lodging  in  a  cave  ;  bearing  afar  off  the  voice  of  Jehovah  ;  watch- 
ing the  couriers  of  the  divine  coming — the  wind,  the  earthquake, 
the  fire ;  and  at  last  made  aware  of  that  coming  itself,  in  the 
still  small  voice,  and  covering  his  face  with  a  mantle,  as  he  came 
out  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  Instructed  in  the  duties  he  had 
to  perform  during  his  brief  remaining  career,  cheered  by  the 
tidings  of  seven  thousand  who  had  not  bent  the  knee  to  Baal, 
and  prepared  by  that  celestial  colloquy  for  the  great  change  at 
hand,  we  see  him  returning  to  the  haunts  of  men — anointing 
Elisha  his  successor — once  more  "  finding"  guilty  Ahab,  who 
trembles  in  his  presence  more  than  if  the  ghost  of  Naboth  had 
stood  up  before  him — and,  as  his  last  public  act,  bringing  down 
new  forks  of  flame  upon  the  fifties  and  their  captains,  who  in 
vain  sought  him  to  prophesy  health  and  life  to  the  dying  Aha- 
ziah.  We  see  him,  then,  turning  his  slow  majestic  steps*  to- 
ward the  Jordan,  oft  reverting  his  eyes  to  the  mountains  of  his 
native  land,  which  he  is  leaving  forever;  shaking  off  by  his 
stride  like  gossamer  the  inquisitive  sons  of  the  prophets,  till 
Elisha  and  he  are  seen  moving  on  alone ;  his  eye  waxing 
brighter,  and  his  step  quicker,  and  his  port  loftier,  as  he  talks 
to  his  companion,  and  approaches  the  stream ;  standing  for  a 
moment  silent  on  its  brink — lifting  then  his  mantle,  wrapping 
it  together,  smiting  the  waters,  and  they  part  hither  and  thither ; 
resuming,  on  the  other  side,  the  high  converse,  but  now,  with 
eager  glances  cast  ever  and  anon  onward ;  at  length,  meeting 
the  fiery  chariot,  mounting  it,  as  a  king  his  car,  and  carried, 
without  a  moment's  delay,  in  a  rushing  whirlwind  upward — 
his  mantle  falling,  and  Elisha  exclaiming,  ''  My  fiither,  my 
father,  the  chariot  of  Israel,  and  the  horsemen  thereof!"  We 
may  ngi»t  farther  or  fully  follow  his  triumphal  progress,  but, 
doubtless,  as  like  a  prince  he  had  mounted  the  chariot,  so  with 
prince-like  majesty  did  he  direct  the  fiery  steeds,  gaze  around 
on  the  peopled  wilderness  of  worlds,  outstrip  the  comet's  glow- 
ing wheel,  rise  above  the  sun,  and  the  sun's  sun,  and  every  sys- 
tem from  which  the  sun's  system  is  visible,  cross  the  firmaments 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW    POETRY.  55 

of  space,  pass  tbrough  the  gates  into  the  city,  enter  amid  the 
rising,  welcoming,  and  wondering  first-born  of  heaven,  and  at 
last  merge  in  the  engulfing  glorj-  of  the  great  white  throne. 

Sucii  honor  have  not  all  God's  saints,  nor  have  had  all  his 
prophets.  But  surely  here  the  dignity  of  the  prophetic  office 
came  to  its  height,  when,  in  the  fullness  of  its  discharge,  it 
swelled  up  into  heaven,  and  when  he^who,  in  the  native  gran- 
deur of  his  commission,  had  walked  among  men  as  a  being  of 
another  race,  was  lifted  up  before  his  time,  like  a  pearl  from  the 
dust,  and  added  to  an  immortal  and  sinless  company. 

We  mention  as  the  last  general  characteristic  of  Hebrew 
poetry,  its  high  moral  tone  and  constant  religious  reference. 
Without  occu[r)-ing  the  full  position  of  Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  cele- 
brated ex  cathedra  and  d  i:>riori  sentence  against  sacred  poetry, 
we  are  forced  to  admit  that,  of  sacred  poetry,  in  its  higher  ac- 
ceptation, we  have  had  little,  and  that  our  sacred  poets  are  few. 
There  are,  we  think,  but  three  poets — Dante,  Milton,  and  Cowper 
— entitled  at  once  to  the  terms  sacred  and  great.  Giles  and 
Phineas  Fletcher,  James  and  Robert  Montgomery,  Milman, 
PoUok,  Trench,  and  Keble,  are  sacred  poets,  and  much  of  their 
poetry  is  true  and  beautiful ;  but  the  shy  epithet  "great"  will 
hardly  alight  on  any  one  of  their  heads.  Spenser,  Cowley, 
Pope,  Addison,  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Wilson,  Coleridge,  and 
Southey,  have  all  written  sacred  poems  (Coleridge's  Hymn  to 
Mont  Blanc,  and  Scott's  Hymn  of  Rebecca,  in  Ivanhoe,  are  sur- 
passed only  by  the  Hebrew  bards)  ;  but  none  of  them  is  prop- 
erly a  sacred  poet.  For  some  of  the  best  of  our  sacred  veises, 
we  are  indebted  to  such  men  as  Christopher  Smart,  John  Logan, 
and  William  Knox.  Of  the  tribe  of  ordinary  hymn  writers, 
whose  drawl  and  lisping  drivel — whose  sickening  sentimen- 
talisra — whose  unintentional  blasphemies  of  familiarity  with 
divine  things  and  persons — whose  profusion  of  such  fulsome 
epithets  as  "sweet  Jesus,"  "dear  Lord,"  "dear  Christ,"  &c., 
render  them  so  undeservedly  popular,  what  need  we  say,  un- 
k'ss  it  be  to  express  our  surprise  that  a  stern  Scottish  taste, 
accustomed  to  admire  the   "  Dies  L'cie,"  our  own   rough  but 


5Q  GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    HEBREW   POETRY. 

manly  version  of  the  Psalms,  and  our  own  simple  and  im- 
pretending  Paraphrases,  should  dream  of  introducing  into  our 
sanctuaries  the  trash  commonly  known  as  hymns!  The  writer 
of  sacred  poetry  should  be  himself  a  sacred  poet,  for  none  else 
can  continuously,  or  at  large,  wi'ite  what  both  the  critic  and  the 
Christian  will  value,  though  for  different  reasons — the  Christian 
for  its  spirit  and  tendency,  the  critic  for  its  thorough  artistic 
adaptation  to  the  theme. 

The  Hebrew  poet  was  nothing,  if  not  sacred.  To  him,  the 
poetical  and  the  religious  were  almost  the  same.  Song  was  the 
form  instinctively  assumed  by  all  the  higher  moods  of  his  wor- 
ship. He  was  not  surprised  into  religious  emotion  and  poetry 
by  the  influence  of  circumstances,  nor  stung  into  it  by  the 
pressure  of  remorse.  He  was  not  religious  only  when  the  organ 
was  playing,  nor  most  so — like  Burns  and  Byron — on  a  sun- 
shiny day.  Religion  was  with  him  a  habitual  feeling,  and  from 
the  joy  or  the  agony  of  that  feeling  poetry  broke  out  irrepres- 
sibly.  To  him,  the  question  "  Are  you  in  a  religious  mood  to- 
day ?"  had  been  as  absurd  as  "  Are  you  alive  to-day  ?"  for  all 
his  moods — whether  high  as  heaven  or  low  as  hell — whether 
wretched  as  the  penitence  of  David,  or  triumphant  as  the  rap- 
ture of  Isaiah — were  tinged  with  the  religious  element.  From 
God  he  sank,  or  up  to  him  he  soared.  The  grand  theocracy 
around  ruled  all  the  soul  and  all  the  song  of  the  bard.  Wher- 
ever he  stood — under  the  silent  starry  canopy,  or  in  the  congre- 
gation of  the  faithful — musing  in  solitary  spots,  or  smiting,  with 
high,  hot,  rebounding  hand,  the  loud  cymbal — his  feeling  was, 
"  How  dreadful  is  this  place  !  this  is  none  other  but  the  house 
of  God,  and  this  is  the  gate  of  heaven."  In  him,  surrounded 
by  sacred  influences,  haunted  by  sacred  recollections,  moving 
through  a  holy  land,  and  overhung  by  a  heavenly  presence,  re- 
ligion became  a  passion,  a  patriotism,  and  a  poetry.  Hence, 
the  sacred  song  of  the  Hebrews  stands  alone ;  and  hence  we  may 
draw  the  deduction,  that  its  equal  we  shall  never  see  again,  till 
again  religion  enshrine  the  earth  with  an  atmosphere  as  it  then 
enshrined  Palestine — till  poets  are  the  organs,  not  only  of  their 


GENERAL    CHARACTERISTICS    OF   HEBREW    POETRY.  57 

personal  belief,  but  of  the  general  sentiment  around  them,  and 
have  become  but  the  high-priests  in  a  vast  sanctuary,  where  all 
shall  be  worshipers,  because  all  is  felt  to  be  divine.  How  this 
high  and  solemn  reference  to  the  Supreme  Intelligence  and  Great 
Whole  comes  forth  in  all  the  varied  forms  of  Hebrew  poetry  ! 
Is  it  the  pastoral  ? — The  Lord  is  the  shepherd.  Is  it  elegy  ? 
— It  bewails  his  absence.  Is  it  ode  ? — It  cries  aloud  for  his  re- 
turn, or  shouts  his  praise.  Is  it  the  historical  ballad  ? — It  re- 
counts his  deeds.  Is  it  the  penitential  psalm  ? — Its-  climax  is, 
"  Against  thee  only  have  I  sinned."  Is  it  the  didactic  poem  ? 
—Running  down  through  the  w^orld,  like  a  sythed  chariot,  and 
hewing  down  before  it  all  things  as  vanity,  it  clears  the  way  to 
the  final  conclusion,  "  Fear  God,  and  keep  his  commandments, 
for  this  is  the  whole  duty  of  man."  Is  it  a  "  burden,"  tossed, 
as  from  a  midnight  mountain,  by  the  hand  of  lonely  seer,  to- 
ward the  lands  of  Egypt  and  Babylon  ? — It  is  the  burden  of 
the  Lord ;  his  the  handful  of  devouring  fire  flung  by  the  fierce 
prophet.  Is  it  apologue,  or  emblem  ? — God's  meaning  hes  in 
the  hollow  of  the  parable  ;  God's  eye  glares  the  "  terrible  crys- 
tal" over  the  rushing  wheels.  Even  the  love-canticle  seems  to 
rise  above  itself,  and  behold  a  greater  than  Solomon,  and  a 
fairer  than  his  Egyptian  spouse,  are  here.  Thus,  from  their 
poetry,  as  fi'om  a  thousand  mirrors,  flashes  back  the  one  awful 
face  of  their  God. 


CHAPTER    III. 

VARIETIES   OF   HEBREW   POETRY. 

It  is  common  for  a  new  writer  on  any  subject  to  commence 
his  work  with  open,  or  with  gently  insinuated,  depreciation  of 
those  who  have  preceded  him,  or,  at  least,  in  the  course  of  it, 
to  "  damn  them  with  faint  praise,"  or  to  hint  and  hesitate  out 
strong  but  suppressed  dislike.  Not  in  conformity  with  this 
custom,  we  propose  to  commence  this  chapter  by  candidly  char- 
acterizing the  principal  writers  on  Hebrew  poetry,  with  whom 
we  are  acquainted. 

By  far  the  most  generally  known  of  those  writers  is  Bishop 
Lowth,  the  fourth  edition  of  whose  "  Lectures  on  the  Sacred 
Poetry  of  the  Hebrews,"  translated  from  the  Latin  by  G. 
Gregory,  F.R.S.,  with  notes  by  Michaelis  and  others,  now  lies 
before  us.  To  use  a  term  which  this  author  himself  employs 
ad  nauseam^  Lowth's  book  is  a  very  "  elegant"  production.  It 
is  written  in  a  round,  fluent,  and  perspicuous  style  ;  abounds  in 
learning  and  ingenious  criticism  ;  is  full  to  overflowing  of  speci- 
mens selected,  and  in  general  re-translated,  from  the  Hebrew 
bards  ;  shows  a  warm  love  for  their  more  prominent  excel- 
lencies, and  an  intimate  knowledge  of  their  mechanical  struc 
ture  ;  and  did  good  service  for  their  fame  when  first  publisli^d 
To  say,  however,  that  it  is  ever  more  than  "  elegant,"  or  evei 
rises  to  the  "  height  of  its  great  argument,"  were  to  compliment 
it  too  highly.  It  contains,  indeed,  much  judicious  criticism, 
some  good  writing,  and  a  few  touches  of  highly  felicitous  pane- 
gyric ;  but,  as  a  whole,  it  is  tame  almost  to  mediocrity — squares 
the  Hebrew  poetry  too  much  by  the  standard  of  the  Greek  and 


VARIETIES    OF    HEBREW   POETRY.  {  69 

Latin  classics — displays  little  or  no  kindred  genius—dilutes  and 
deadens  the  portions  of  the  Bible  it  professes  to  render  into 
English  verse — bears  too  decidedly  the  stamp  of  the  eighteenth 
century — and  does  not  at  all  fulfill  its  own  expressed  ideal,  "He 
who  would  feel  the  peculiar  and  interior  elegances  of  the  He- 
brew poetry,  must  imagine  himself  exactly  situated  as  the 
persons  for  whom  it  was  written,  or  even  as  the  writers  them- 
selves— he  is  to  feel  as  a  Hebrew,  to  read  Hebrew  as  the  He- 
-brews  would  have  read  it."  Lowth  is  very  little  of  a  Hebrew, 
and  the  point  of  view  he  occupies  is  for  below  the  level  of  the 
"  hills  of  holiness."  His  criticism  bears  not  even  the  proportion 
to  the  subject  which  Pope's  "  Messiah"  does  to  its  original ;  it 
wants  subtilty,  power,  and  abandonment.  Much  of  his  general 
preliminary  matter  is  now  obsolete,  and  the  account  which  he 
gives  of  the  individual  writers  is  meager.  He  supplies  a  series 
of  anatomical  sketches,  not  of  living  portraits.  He  is  to  David 
and  Isaiah  what  Warton  was  to  Shakspeare,  or  Blair  to  Homer 
and  Virgil.  His  translator  has  not  been  able  altogether  to 
overcome  the  air  of  stiffness  which,  adheres  to  all  English  ver- 
sions from  the  Latin.  Nor  do  the  notes  by  Michaelis  add  much 
to  the  book's  value.  They  have,  indeed,  much  learning,  but 
their  literary  criticism  is  alike  despicable  and  profane.  "  Eze- 
kiel,"  says  our  learned  Theban,  "does  not  strike  with  admiration, 
nor  exhibit  any  trait  of  sublimity."  Truly,  over  such  a  critic 
all  the  wheels  of  Chebar  would  roll  in  vain,  for  what  impression 
can  be  made  on  insensate  and  infidel  dust  ?  Even  a  mule 
would  be  awe-struck  in  the  gorge  of  Glencoe,  but  a  mule  is  only 
a  relation  to  Michaelis.  His  translator  sounds  a  deeper  deep, 
and  actually  accuses  Ezekiel  of  the  bathos  ! 

Such  was  the  criticism  of  the  past  age.  Rarely  did  it  reach, 
in  any  of  its  altitudes  of  praise,  a  term  higher  than  the  afore- 
said "  elegant" — a  term  which,  while  accurately  measuring 
Pope  and  Addison,  looks,  when  connected  with  Moses  and 
Isaiah,  ludicrously  inadequate.  The  age,  of  which  this  was 
the  superlative,  could  scarcely  measure  the  poetry  of  that  which 


60  VARIETIES    OF   HEBREW   POETRY. 

saw  and  sung  the  highest  beauty  and  the  loftiest  grandeu 
embracing  each  other  in  the  Temple  under  the  shadow  of 
"  Jehovah  thundering  out  of  Zion,  throned 
Between  the  cherubim." 

Lowth,  to  do  him  justice,  deserved  better  company  than 
Michaelis  or  Gregory.  His  step  round  the  awful  sanctities  of 
Hebrew  song  is  the  light  and  trembhng  step  of  a  timid  lover; 
and,  for  the  sake  of  his  love  and  sincerity,  much  must  be  for- 
given him,  even  although  the  oblivion  demanded  for  his  faults 
should  at  last  engulf  his  merits  too.  Yet,  as  an  inscription 
on  a  tombstone  is  often  read,  and  is  sometimes  spared,  for  its 
Latinity,  it  may  be  hoped  that  so  many  fine  and  rolling  periods, 
in  the  tongue  of  Cicero,  shall  long  resist  decay,  even  after  they 
have  ceased  to  be  regarded  with  the  former  degree  of  respect 
and  admiration. 

Herder  was  a  man  of  "  another  spirit ;"  and  his  report  of  the 
good  land  of  Hebrew  poetry,  compared  to  Lowth's,  is  that  of  a 
Caleb  or  Joshua,  to  that  of  an  ordinary  Jewish  spy.  He  does 
not  climb  from  Parnassus  to  Lebanon,  but  descends  on  it  from 
the  "  mountains  of  the  East" — from  a  keen  admiration  and  in- 
timate knowledge  of  the  spirit  and  genius  of  all  <iriental  tribes 
and  poets.  He  "  feels  as  a  Hebrew,  and  has  read  Hebrew  as 
the  Hebrews  read  it."  He  has  himself  a  winged  soul,  and  can 
transport  his  reader  along  with  him  into  the  very  heart  of  a 
former  age,  enabling  him  to  realize  its  old  life,  to  feel  its  old 
habits  hanging  softly  around  him,  to  throb  with  its  old  ambi- 
tions, to  talk  fluently  its  old  language,  and  to  climb  as  far  up 
as  the  mists  of  its  old  prejudices.  Thus  to  plunge  into  the  past 
was  competent  only  to  a  "  diver  lean  and  strong  ;"  and  Herder, 
so  far,  has  done  it  nobly.  He  has  developed,  in  a  masterly 
manner,  the  sources  from  which  Hebrew  poetry  sprung ;  the 
ideas  of  God,  nature,  man,  and  the  future  world,  which  it  rep- 
resented, and  the  influences  radiated  upon  it  from  the  heat 
of  the  Hebrew  climate  and  the  impassioned  temperament  of  the 
Hebrew  bosom.  He  has  defended,  too,  with  force  and  gusto, 
the  form  of  Hebrew  versification,  and  the  copiousness  of  its 


VARIETIES    OF   HEBREW   POETRY.  61 

diction.  His  versions  of  particular  passages  are  always  spirited 
and  poetical.  Above  all,  he  catches  fire  from  his  theme,  and 
the  commentary  is  often  only  a  "  little  lower"  than  the  text. 
Still,  the  book  is  a  fragment.  The  author  never  filled  up  its 
outhne.  JSTeither  the  larger  nor  lesser  prophets  are  included  in 
it.  A  shade  of  neologism  will  always  mar  its  eflfect  on  the 
popular  British  mind.  Kor  will  that  be  enhanced,  when  it  is 
known  that  the  author,  ere  his  death,  modified  many  of  its 
Yiews,  rehnquished,  in  a  great  measure,  his  taste  for  the  simple, 
primitive,  and  unconscious  kinds  of  poetry,  and  adopted,  in 
exchange,  a  preference  for  cultured  and  classical  song.  Such, 
however,  is  the  power  of  poetic  enthusiasm,  that  the  heretic 
Herder  dismisses  his  intelligent  readers  with  a  profounder  reve- 
rence for  the  Scriptures,  as  well  as  a  keener  sense  of  their  poetic 
beauty,  than  the  British  bishop,  nor  Can  his  work  ever  cease 
to  fill  a  niche,  and  attract  admirers  of  its  own.  It  is  a  true  and 
a  beautiful  thing,  and  must  be  a  "joy  forever." 

With  the  third  of  the  three  works,  which  have  constituted 
epochs  in  the  modern  criticism  of  Hebrew  poetry — that,  namely, 
of  Dr.  Ewald — we  have  but  recently  become  acquainted.  It 
avows  great  pretensions  to  minute  accuracy  and  profound  in- 
vestigation, and  seems,  indeed,  as  a  scientific  treatise,  incom- 
parably better  than  either  of  its  predecessors.  But  its  literature 
is  not  quite  equal  to  its  knowledge.  Its  criticism  is  too  often 
verbal ;  more  regard  is  paid  to  the  vestments,  or  to  the  body, 
than  to  the  spirit  of  the  various  strains  ;  it  systematically  sacri- 
fices the  later  to  the  earlier  literature  of  the  Hebrews  ;  compared 
to  Herder,  its  tone  is  cold ;  and  its  many  German  peculiarities 
can  never  permit  it  to  be  naturalized  in  our  country,  invaluable 
as  it  must  remain  to  the  Scriptural  scholar  and  the  critic. 

Besides  these,  we  know  nothing  of  much  mark  on  the  sub- 
ject, except  the  brilliant  sketches  of  Eichhorn  ;  the  well-written, 
compact,  and  rapid  biographies  of  the  various  bards  in  Dr.  Eadie's 
"  Biblical  Cyclopaedia ;"  and  an  interesting  little  volume  by  Dr. 
Macculloch  of  Greenock,  entitled,  "  Literary  Characteristics  of 
the  Scriptures." 


62  VARIETIES    OF    HESREW   POETRY. 

The  principal  of  the  different  writers  thus  enumerated  and 
characterized  have  differently  classified  the  varieties  of  Hebrew 
poetry. 

Dr.  Lowth  divides  it  into  prophetic,  elegiac,  didactic,  lyric, 
idylHc,  and  dramatic.  To  this  arrangement,  some  objections 
may  be  stated.  First,  It  is  not  a  natural  arrangement,  seeing 
that  lyrical  poetry  unquestionably  preceded  all  the  others. 
Secondly,  It  is  not  an  accurate  or  logical  arrangement,  since, 
1st,  It  is  difficult  to  distinguish  idyllic  from  lyric  poetry — the 
one  is  but  a  species  of  the  other ;  and  since,  2d]y,  prophetic 
poetry,  so  far  from  being  distinct  from  any,  included  by  turns 
all  the  enumerated  varieties.  Dr.  Lowth,  too,  excludes  Jonah 
and  Daniel  from  the  list  of  prophet-poets,  because  their  writings 
have  no  metrical  structure  or  poetical  style — a  canon  which 
would  degrade  to  dusty  prose  the  "  Be  light"  of  God,  and  the 
golden  rule  of  Christ. 

Herder's  division  is  very  general.  Hebrew  poetry,  with  him, 
consists  of  two  leading  forms — the  figurative  speech  and  the 
song.  The  most  eloquent  writers  in  the  first  kind  were  the 
prophets,  and  the  most  sublime  lyrical  effusions  were  the  songs 
of  the  Temple.  He  adds,  "  Whether  these  two  kinds  were  ex- 
panded into  ampler  forms,  as  the  drama  and  heroic  poetry,  will 
be  shown  hereafter."  That  hereafter  never  fully  came,  although, 
from  hints  he  throws  out,  he  did  find  the  heroic  poem  in  the 
history  written  by  Moses,  and  the  drama  in  Solomon's  Song 
and  Job. 

Dr.  Ewald's  arrangement  is  much  more  logical  than  Lowth's, 
and  more  minute  than  Herder's.  It  deserves,  therefore,  a  some- 
what fuller  analysis.  He  commences  by  combating  the  common 
notion,  that  epic  poetry  is  the  earliest.  It  is  often,  indeed,  the 
first  written,  but  has  probably  been  preceded  by  lyrics,  which 
have  vanished  without  leaving  a  trace.  N'ay,  in  some  nations, 
it  is  quite  unknown  ;  but  no  nation  has  wanted  its  early  lyrical 
poetry,  whether  preceding  or  cotemporaneous  with  the  epic. 
The  lyric,  therefore,  must  be  the  earlier  of  the  two.  There  are, 
besides,  special  reasons  connected  with  the  temperament  and 


VARIETIES    OF    HEBREW   POETRY.  63 

faith  of  the  Hebrews,  why  lyrics  should  have  had  the  start  of 
epics.  The  epic  requires  "  tranquillity  and  reserve  of  thought, 
self-possessed  art,  and  rigid  restraint  of  enthusiasm  ;"  whereas 
*'  suddenness  of  emotion  and  act,  intensity  and  vivacity  of  simple 
and  impressible  feehngs,  the  highest  tension  and  rapid  collapse 
X)f  imagination,"  are  characteristic  of  the  Hebrew  nation.  The 
epic  poet,  moreover,  is  "  aided  by  a  rich,  developed,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  pliable  mythology ;  whereas,  the  religion  of  the 
Hebrews  is  very  grave  and  austere"  (and,  Ewald  might  have 
added,  "  true'''),  "  and  leaves  little  room  for  poetic  conception." 
As  lyrical  poetry  was  first,  so  it  continued,  for  a  long  time,  sole 
occupant  of  the  field.  Ewald  describes  it  as  possessing  the 
widest  compass,  and  reflecting  the  whole  life  of  the  nation  at 
all  times  and  in  all  circumstances ;  as  having  its  essential 
peculiarity  in  its  musical  form  of  utterance  and  dehvery — it  was 
immortal  thought  married  to  vocal  or  instrumental  melody ; 
and  as  divided,  according  to  its  subjects,  into  various  species : 
such  as  the  hymn  which  commemorated  some  joyful  or  great 
event,  witness  the  29th,  46th,  and  48th  Psalms  ;  the  dirge,  such 
as  David's  lament  for  Saul  and  Jonathan,  and  such  songs  of 
mourning  for  the  calamities  of  the  land,  as  the  44th,  60tb,  and 
'73d  Psalms ;  the  dithyrambic,  an  irregular,  wild,  and  excited 
strain,  the  sole  specimens  of  which  occur  in  the  7th  Psalm  and 
in  the  3d  chapter  of  Habakkuk ;  the  love-song,  such  as  the 
45th  Psalm;  the  prayer,  in  which,  as  in  the  17th,  86th,  and 
102d  Psalms,  the  devotional  prevails  over  the  poetical  element; 
and,  lastly,  the  sententious,  satiric  song,  to  be  met  with  in  the 
14th,  58th,  and  82d  Psalms,  and  which  constitutes  a  link  con- 
necting the  lyrical  with  the  second  variety  of  Hebrew  poetry. 
This  Ewald  calls  gnomic  poetry.  In  it,  feeling  is  solidified 
into  sentiment;  general  truths  take  the  place  of  individual  im- 
pressions; lyric  rapture  is  exchanged  for  almost  philosophic 
ealm ;  the  style  becomes  less  diffuse,  and  more  sententious ; 
the  form  of  verse  remains,  but  the  accompaniments  of  song  and 
music  are  abandoned  and  forgotten.  The  rise  of  this  poetry 
testifies  to  the  advance  of  a  people  in  the  power  of  generaliza- 


64  VARIETIES    OF    HEBREW   POETRY. 

tion,  and  shows  that  a  quantity  of  experience  has  been  accu- 
mulated into  a  national  stock.  In  Israel,  it  commenced  with 
Solomon.  Lyric  poetry  is  a  spray  which  rises  from  troubled 
■waters,  such  as  rolled  in  David's  time ;  but  gnomic  poetry  is 
the  calm  ripple  upon  an  ocean  of  peace.  It  necessarily  united 
itself  with  the  floating  proverbial  literature  of  the  country.  From 
simple  sententiousness  it  gradually  swelled  into  oratory,  snatched 
up  fitfully  the  lyre  it  had  thrown  aside,  or  diverged  into  dra- 
matic form,  touching  thus  upon  the  third  variety  of  Hebrew 
song.  This  is  the  drama.  No  regular  shape  of  it,  indeed,  nor 
any  approximation  to  a  theater,  a  stage,  or  the  many  arts  and 
contrivances  connected  with  it,  are  to  be  found  among  the  He- 
brews. But  the  simple  beginning  and  foundation  of  dramatic 
poetry  may  be  traced  in  their  poetry.  This  Ewald  finds  in 
the  Song  of  Songs,  "  which  appears  as  if  designed  for  a  stage, 
albeit  a  very  simple  one,  which  develops  winged  speeches  of 
several  persons,  a  complete  action,  and  in  the  course  of  the 
whole  admits  definite  pauses  of  the  action,  which  are  only 
suited  to  the  drama."  Job,  too,  seems  to  him  a  sublime  drama, 
which,  in  comparison  with  the  Song,  may  be  called  a  tragedy. 

Proceeding  at  some  length  to  analyze  the  Song,  he  finds  in 
it  various  characters — a  chorus,  an  action,  a  happy  termina- 
tion, and  a  strong  and  lively  moral.  In  this  he  is  very  suc- 
cessful; but  his  preconception  as  to  the  late  origin  of  the 
book  of  Job,  leads  him  to  over-estimate  the  art,  and  somewhat 
to  underrate  the  natural  force  and  genius  of  that  marvelous 
poem. 

For  epic  poetry,  he  searches  in  vain,  amid  the  earlier  por- 
tions of  the  Hebrew  literature,  but  descries  its  late  beginnings, 
in  Tobit,  Judith,  and  some  other  of  the  apocryphal  books. 

Such  is  Ewald's  classification.  It  is  excellent  in  some  things, 
but,  in  the  first  place,  it  omits  altogether  the  prophetic  writers. 
These  Ewald  appears  to  regard  as  the  orators  of  the  land,  rather 
than  as  its  noblest  and  loftiest  poets.  Secondly,  it  slurs  over 
the  truly  epical  character  of  the  historical  books  of  the  Old 
Testament.    Is  not  Exodus  itself  a  great  epic,  as  well  as  a  true 


VARIETIES    OF    HEBREW    POETRY.  65 

history,  containing  all  the  constituents  of  that  species  of  poetry  ? 
Thirdly,  It  rather  oddly  finds  the  commencement,  if  not  the 
climax,  of  the  degeneracy  of  Hebrew  literature  in  the  book  of 
Job,  which  bears  internal  evidence  of  being  the  earliest  as  well 
as  the  most  sublime  poem  in  the  w^orld.  We  wonder  Ewald  had 
not  also  sought  to  prove  that  "Prometheus  Yinctus"  was  writ- 
ten after  the  subjugation  of  Greece  by  the  Romans.  We  fancy 
a  subtile  critic,  in  the  thirtieth  century,  starting  the  theory  that 
"Macbeth"  was  translated  from  the  German  of  Kotzebue,  and 
falsely  imputed  to  Shakspeare  !  Fourthly,  Ewald's  principle  of 
arrangement  excludes  altogether  the  prose-poetry  of  Scripture 
— not  the  least  interesting  and  impressive — which  abounds  in 
the  historical  books,  and  constitutes  the  staple  of  the  entire 
volume. 

Without  intending  strictly  to  abide  by  it  in  our  after-chap- 
ters, we  may  now  propound  a  division  of  our  own.  We  would 
arrange  Hebrew  poetry  under  the  two  general  heads  of  Song 
and  Poetic  Statement.  We  give  the  particulars  which  fall 
under  this  general  division. 

We  have  first  Song — 

Exulting — in  odes  of  triumph — Psalm  cl. 

Insulting — in  strains  of  irony  and  invective — Psalm  cix. 

Mourning — over  calamities — Psalm  Ixxi.,  Lamentations. 

"Worshiping — God — Psalni  civ. 

Loving — in  friendly  or  amatory  songs — Psalm  xlv. 

Pv,eflecting —  in  gnomic  or  sententious  strains — Psalm  cxxxix.,  Proverbs. 

Interchanging— in  the  varied  persons  and  parts  of  the  simple  drama — 

Job  and  Song. 
Wildly-luxuriating — as  in  Psalm  vii.,  Habakkuk  iii. 
ISTarrating — the  past  deeds  of  God  to  Israel,  the  simple  epic — Psalm 

Ixxviii.,  Exodus,  ti'C. 
Predicting — the  future  history  of  the  church  and  the  world — Prophetic 

Writings. 

We  have  second,  Poetical  Statement,  or  Statement — 

1st,  Of  poetic  facts  (creation,  (fee). 

2d,  Of  poetic  doctrines  (God's  spirituahty). 


66  VARIETIES  OF.  HEBREW  POETRY. 

8d,  Of  poetic  sentiments,  with  or  without  figurative  language  (golden 

rule,  (fee). 
4th,  Of  poetic  symbols  (in  Zechariah,  Pi,evelation,  (fee). 

Ill  su}>port  of  this  division,  we  maintain,  first,  that  it  is  com- 
prehensive, including  every  real  species  of  poetry  in  Scripture 
— including,  specially,  the  prophetic  writings,  the  New  Testa- 
ment, and  that  mass  of  seed  poetry  in  which  the  Book  abounds, 
apart  from  its  professedly  rhythmical  and  figured  portions. 
Song  and  statement  appear  to  include  the  Bible  between  them, 
and  the  statement  is  sometimes  more  poetical  than  the  song. 
If  aught  evade  this  generalization,  it  is  the  argument  which  is 
charily  sprinkled  throughout  the  Epistles  of  Paul.  Even  that  is 
logic  defining  the  boundaries  of  the  loftiest  poetry.  All  else,  from 
the  simple  narrations  of  Ezra  and  Nehemiah,  up  to  the  'inost 
ornate  and  oratorical  appeals  of  the  prophets,  is  genuinely  poetic, 
and  ought  by  no  means  to  be  excluded  from  the  range  of  our 
critical  explication  and  panegyric.  Surely  the  foam  on  the 
brow  of  the  deep  is  not  all  its  poetry,  is  not  more  poetical  than 
the  vast  billows  on  which  it  swells  and  rises,  and  rather  typifies 
than  exhausts  the  boundless  power  and  beauty  which  are  be- 
low. "  God  is  a  spirit,"  or  "  God  is  love,"  contains,  each  sen- 
tence, a  world  of  poetic  beauty,  as  well  as  divine  meaning.  In- 
deed, certain  prose  sentences  constitute  the  essence  of  all  the 
poetry  in  the  Scriptures.  Round  the  rule  "  Thou  shalt  love  the 
Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and  all  thy  soul,  and  all  thy 
mind,  and  all  thy  strength,  and  thy  neighbor  as  thyself," 
revolve  the  moral  beauties  and  glories  of  both  Testaments ; 
its  praises  are  chanted  alike  by  Sinai's  thunders  and  the  temple 
songs  ;  round  it  cluster  the  Psalms,  and  on  it  hang  the  Pro- 
phets. What  planetary  splendors  gather  and  circle  about 
the  grand  central  truth  contained  in  the  opening  verse,  "  In  the 
beginning  God  created  the  heavens  and  the  earth,"  and  about 
the  cognate  statement,  "The  Lord  our  God  is  one  Lord!"  And 
how  simple  that  sentence  which  unites  the  psalmodies  of  earth 
and  of  heaven  in  one  reverberating  chorus,  "  Worthy  is  the 
Lamb  that  was  slain  !"     Truly  the  songs  of  Scripture  are  mag- 


VARIETIES  OF  HEBREW  POETRY.  67 

nificent,  but  its  statements  are  "  words  unutterable,"  ■which  it  is 
not  possible  for  the  tongue  of  man  to  utter  I 

Secondly,  Our  division  is  simple,  and  is  thus  better  fitted  to  the 
simplicity  of  the  Hebrew  poetrj^  It  disguises  less  elaborately, 
and  dresses  less  ostentatiously,  the  one  main  thing  which  lies 
within  all  the  rhythmical  books  of  the  Bible.  That  one  thing 
is  lyrical  impulse  and  fire.  "  Still  its  speech  is  song,"  whether 
one  or  many  speakers  be  introduced,  and  whether  that  song 
mourn  or  rejoice,  predict  or  instruct,  narrate  or  adore.  The 
Song  of  Solomon  is  a  song,  not  a  drama ;  or  let  us  call  it  a 
dramatic  song.  Job  is  a  lyrical  drama,  or  dramatic  lyric.  The 
histories  are  song-sprinkled  narratives,  facts  moving  to  the  sound 
of  music  and  dancing.  And  the  prophets  seem  all  to  stand, 
like  Elisha,  beside  the  kings  of  Israel  and  Judah,  each  one  with 
a  minstrel's  harp  beside  him,  and  to  it  and  the  voice  of  accom- 
panying song,  there  break  the  clouds  and  expand  the  land- 
scapes of  futurity. 

This  lyrical  impulse  was  not,  however,  the  mere  breath  of 
human  genius.  It  was  the  "  wind  of  God's  mouth,"  the  im- 
mediate effect  of  a  divine  afflatus.  This,  former  critics  too  much 
overlook.  They  find  art  where  they  ought  to  find  inspiration ; 
or  they  cry  out  "  genius,"  when  they  ought  to  say,  with  solemn 
reverence  and  whispered  breath,  "  God."  And  by  preserving, 
more  entirely  than  others,  the  lyrical  character  of  all  Hebrew 
poetry,  we  supply  this  third  reason  for  the  adoption  of  our  clas- 
sification— It  links  the  effect  more  closely  with  its  cause — it  ex- 
hibits all  Hebrew  song,  whether  simple  or  compound,  from 
Moses  down  to  Malachi,  as  stirred  into  being  by  one  Great 
Breath — finding  in  the  successive  poets  and  prophets,  so  many 
successive  lyres  for  the  music,  soft  or  stormy,  high  or  low,  sad 
or  joyful,  which  it  wished  to  discourse.  To  say  that  all  those  lyres 
were  natively  of  equal  sweetness  or  compass,  or  that  the  Breath 
made  them  so— that  all  those  poets  were  naturally,  or  by  inspi- 
ration, alike  eloquent  and  powerful,  were  to  utter  an  absurdity. 
But  is  it  less  absurd  to  suppose  a  systematic  decline  in  the  fit- 
ness  and  fullness  of  the  lyres — in  the  eloquence  and  power 


68  VARIETIES   OF  HEBREW  POETRY. 

of  the  propliets — when  we  remember,  first,  that  Habakkuk, 
Haggai,  and  Zechariah,  belonged  to  this  hitter  class ;  when  we 
remember,  secondly,  that  the  latter  day  of  Judah  exhibited  crises 
of  equal  magaitii-de,  and  as  w^orthy  of  poetic  treatment,  as  its 
earlier;  when  we  remember,  thirdly,  that  the  great  event,  the 
coming  of  Christ,  to  which  all  the  prophets  testified,  was  more 
clearly  revealed  to  the  last  of  the  company  ;  and  when  we  re- 
member, fourthly,  that  the  power  who  overshadowed  Malachi, 
was  the  same  who  inspired  Moses — his  eye  no  dimmer,  his  ear 
no  heavier,  his  hand  no  shorter,  and  his  breath  no  feebler  than 
of  old  i  No  !  the  peculiar  prophetic  and  poetic  influence  did 
not  gradually  diminish,  or  by  inches  decay  ;  but  whether  owing 
to  the  sin  of  the  people,  or  to  the  sovereignty  of  God,  it  seems 
to  have  expired  in  an  instant.  Prophecy  went  down  at  once, 
like  the  sun  of  the  tropics,  leaving  behind  it  only  such  a  faint 
train  of  zodiacal  light  as  we  find  in  the  apocryphal  books;  nor 
did  it  re-appear,  till  it  assumed  the  person  of  the  Prophet  of 
Galilee,  and  till  he  who  in  times  past  spoke  nnto  the  fathers, 
by  the  prophets,  did,  in  the  last  days,  speak  unto  us  by  his 
own  Son. 


CHAPTER    lY. 

POETRY   OF   THE   PENTATEUCH. 

We  have  intimated  already,  that,  thougli  we  have,  in  the 
former  chapter,  chissitied  Hebrew  poetry  under  certain  generic 
heads,  we  deem  it  best,  in  our  future  remarks,  to  pursue  the 
method  of  following;  it  do^\^l  as  we  find  it  in  the  various  writinofs 
of  Scripture.  Such  a  method  will  secure  variety,  will  lead  to 
an  informal  history  of  the  progress  of  Bible  poetry,  and  prevent 
any  of  its  prominent  writers  being  overlooked,  or  lost  amid 
vague  and  general  description. 

We  meet,  first,  with  that  singular  collection  of  books  called 
the  Pentateuch — or  Five  Books  of  Moses — books  which,  though 
containing  few  professedly  poetical  passages,  are  steeped  through- 
out in  the  essence  of  poetry. 

In  the  catalogue  of  Israel's  prophetic  bards,  Moses  stands 
earliest.  Poets,  indeed,  and  poetry  there  had  been  before  him. 
Some  of  those  aboriginal  songs,  such  as  Lamech's  speech  to 
his  wives,  and  Jacob's  dying  words,  Moses  has  himself  pre- 
served ;  but  he  undoubtedly  was  the  Homer,  as  well  as  the 
Solon  of  his  country.  We  never  can  separate  his  genius  from 
his  character,  so  meek,  yet  stern ;  from  his  appearance,  so 
gravely  commanding,  so  spiritually  severe ;  from  his  law, 
"girt  with  dark  thunder  and  embroidered  fires;"  and  from 
certain  incidents  in  his  history — his  figure  in  the  ark,  when,  at 
the  sight  of  the  strange,  richly-attired  lady,  "  Behold  the  babe 
wept" — his  attitude  beside  the  bush  that  burned  in  the  wilder- 
ness— his  sudden  entrance  into  the  presence  of  Pharaoh — his 
lifting  up,  with  that  sinewy,  swarthy  hand,  the  rod  over  the 


•^0  POETRY    OF    THE    PENTATEUCH. 

Red  Sea — his  ascent  up  the  black  precipices  of  Sinai — his 
death  on  Pisgah,  with  the  promised  land  full  in  view— his 
mystic  burial  in  a  secret  vale  by  the  hand  of  the  Eternal — his 
position,  as  the  leader  of  the  great  Exodus  of  the  tribes,  and 
the  founder  of  a  strict,  complicated,  and  magnificent  polity — 
all  this  has  given  a  supplemental  and  extraordinary  interest  to 
the  writings  of  Moses.  Their  sublimity  arises  generally  from 
the  calm  recital  of  great  events.  He  is  the  sternest  of  all  the 
Scripture  writers,  and  the  most  laconic.  His  writings  may  be 
called  hieroglyphics  of  the  strangest  and  greatest  events  in  the 
early  part  of  the  world's  history.  Summing  up  the  work  of 
innumerable  ages  in  the  one  pregnant  sentence  with  which  the 
book  begins,  he  then  maps  out  in  a  chapter  the  arrangements 
of  the  present  form  of  the  creation,  gives  the  miniature  of  the 
original  condition  of  earth's  happy  inhabitants,  and  the  hiero- 
glyphics of  their  fall ;  runs  rapidly  across  the  antediluvian  pa- 
triarchs ;  gives,  graphically,  but  simply,  the  grand  outlines  of 
the  deluge ;  traces  to  a  short  distance  the  diverging  rivers  of 
empire  which  flowed  from  the  ark ;  and  embarks,  in  fine,  upon 
the  little,  but  widening  stream  of  the  story  of  Seth's  children. 
When  he  begins  to  be  anecdotical,  the  anecdotes  are  culled 
from  a  vast  space  of  ground,  which  he  leaves  untouched.  He 
is  not  a  minute  and  full-length  biographer,  and  never,  till  he 
comes  to  the  details  of  the  legal  system,  does  he  drop  his 
Spartan  garb  of  short  and  overleaping  narrative,  and  become 
simply,  yet  nobly,  diffuse.  His  style  of  writing  resembles  the 
characters  sculptured  on  the  walls  of  Egyptian  temples,  lower- 
ing over  the  gates  of  Thebes,  or  dim-discovered  amid  the 
vaults  of  the  Pyramids,  whence  he,  who  afterward  "refused 
to  be  called  the  son  of  Pharaoh's  daughter,"  drunk  in  the  first 
draught  of  inspiration,  to  be  renewed  again  and  again,  at 
holier  fountains,  till,  sublimed  by  it,  he  dared  to  climb  a 
quaking  Sinai,  and  to  front  a  fire-girt  God.  His  style,  col- 
ored by  early  familiarity  with  that  strange,  silent  tongue, 
partakes  here  and  there  of  certain  of  its  qualities,  its  intri- 
cate simplicity,  its  "  language  within  language"  of  allegorical 


POETRY    OF   THE    PENTATEUCn. 


71 


meaning,  and  resembles  tlie  handwriting-  of  him  who  wrote  on 
the  wall  of  the  Babylonian  palace  — "  Mene,  mene,  tekel, 
upharsin." 

As  a  narrator,  Moses  makes  a  word  or  two  do  the  work  of 
pictures.  Nor  is  this  word  always  an  snog  msgoev — a  word 
rolled  together  like  a  double  star — but  often  a  plain,  unmeta- 
phorical  tei-m,  which  quakes  under  the  thought  or  scene  it  de- 
scribes. The  pathos  or  the  grandeur,  instead  of  elevating  and 
enkindling  his  language,  levels  and  sinks  it.  His  language 
may  be  called  the  mere  transparent  window  through  which 
the  "  immeasurable  calm" — the  blue  of  immensity — looks  in. 
Certainly  it  is  the  least  figurative  of  all  the  Scripture  styles. 
Its  simphcity  is  deeper  than  that  of  age's  unmoved  narratives  ; 
it  is  rather  that  of  infancy,  telling  some  dreadful  tale  in  an 
undertone,  and  with  upcast  looks  of  awe.  It  is  as  if  Moses, 
at  the  feet  of  that  simulacrum  of  Deity  which  he  saw  on  the 
mount,  had  become  a  child  ;  as  if  the  Glory,  which  might 
have  maddened  others,  had  only  sunk  him  down  into  the  ark 
of  bulrushes  again.  And,  from  that  hour,  dropping  all  the 
learning  of  the  Egyptians,  the  mystic  folds  of  which  he  had 
wrapped  around  him,  he  is  content  to  be  the  mere  instrument 
in  the  Divine  hand,  and  becomes,  that  meekest  man — a  boy 
repeating  with  quivering  voice  and  heart  the  lesson  his  father 
has  taught  him.  Hence  the  Fall  is  recounted  without  a 
word  of  comment  or  regret ;  the  sight  of  an  ocean-world 
starts  up  but  one  expression  which  looks  like  a  metaphor — the 
"  windows  of  heaven  ;"  the  journe}^  of  Abraham,  going  forth, 
not  knowing  whither  he  went,  in  search  of  a  far  country — the 
most  momentous  journey  in  the  history  of  m-an — is  told  as 
succinctly  and  quietly,  as  are  afterward  the  delinquencies 
of  Er  and  Judah  ;  through  a  naked  narrative,  bursts  the  deep 
pathos  involved  in  the  story  of  Joseph  ;  and  how  telescopic,  in 
its  clear  calmness,  his  view  of  the  Ten  Plagues,  sweeping 
in  their  course  between  the  Nile  of  raging  blood  and  the  cry 
which  proclaimed  the  findings  of  that  fearful  morning,  when 
there  was  not  a  house  but  there  was  one  dead — the  whole 


'72  POETRY    OF   THE    PENTATEUCH. 

dread  circle  of  desolation,  mourning,  and  woe.  And  oven  wlien 
he  brings  us  in  sight  of  Sinai — the  proud  point  in  his  life — 
the  center  of  his  system — the  scene,  too,  of  his  sublime  agony, 
for  there  did  he  not  exceedingly  fear  and  quake  ? — his  descrip- 
tion is  no  more  than  the  bare  transcript  of  its  terrors.  They 
are  not  grouped  together,  as  by  Paul  afterward ;  and  far  less 
are  they  exaggerated  by  rhetoiical  artifice. 

This  is  the  way  in  which  he  represents  the  fierce  splen- 
dors which  gathered  around  Sinai  as  the  Ancient  One  de- 
scended :  "  And  it  came  to  pass,  on  tiie  third  day,  in  the  morn- 
ing, that  there  were  thunders,  and  hghtnings,  and  a  thick  cloud 
upon  the  mount,  and  the  voice  of  the  trumpet  exceeding  loud, 
so  that  all  the  people  which  were  in  the  camp  trembled.  And 
Moses  brought  forth  the  people  out  of  the  camp  to  meet  with 
God,  and  they  stood  at  the  nether  part  of  the  mount.  And 
Mount  Sinai  was  altogether  on  a  smoke,  because  the  Lord  de- 
scended upon  it  in  fire ;  and  the  smoke  thereof  ascended  as  the 
smoke  of  a  furnace,  and  the  whole  mount  quaked  greatly.  And 
when  the  voice  of  the  trumpet  sounded  long,  and  waxed  louder 
and  louder,  Moses  spake,  and  God  answered  him  b}'  a  voice." 

Nor  did  this  intense  simplicity  betray  any  lack  of  poetical 
sensibility,  or  prove  Moses  a  mere  stony  legislator,  fitly  typified 
by  the  cold  tables  which  received  and  cooled  the  red  dropping 
syllables  of  the  "Fiery  Law."  That,  on  the  contrary,  he  was 
actuated  by  a  subHme  lyric  afflatus,  which  moved  him  at  times, 
we  have  ample  evidence  in  the  odes  which  are  found  sprinkled 
through  his  books.  Witness  the  pean  of  exultation  which, 
chanted  by  the  voices  and  cymbals  of  the  millions  of  Israel, 
sung  the  requiem  of  Pharaoh  and  his  "Memphian  Chivalry;" 
and  where,  even  as  the  naked  storm  of  vocal  sound  intermarried 
and  incarnated  itself  in  timbrels  and  dances,  so  did  the  emotions 
of  the  lyrist  clothe  themselves  in  thick  and  vaulting  imagery. 
In  another  strain — more  subdued,  more  melting — does  he,  in 
the  90th  Psalm,  pour  out  the  common  plaint  of  all  ages,  over 
the  shortness  and  fraiUy  of  life.  But  deepest  the  touch  of 
poetry  left  on  his  last  song,  when,  in  his  enthusiasm,  he  calls 


POETRY    OF    THE    PENTATEUCH.  73 

on  heaven  and  earth  to  give  audience  tahis  words,  and  proceeds 
to  utter  what  might  compel  the  attention  of  both,  in  a  song  that 
might  be  set  to  the  sphere  music,  or  sung  in  that  floating 
melody — those  "  mystic  snatches  of  harmonious  sound" — which 
poets  say  sometimes  visit  this  sad  world,  smooth  its  air,  appease 
its  hungry  restlessness,  and  strike  invisible,  unaccountable,  but 
short-lived  joy,  through  all  its  withered  veins. 

Moses  we  have  called  the  Homer  of  his  country ;  nor  is  the 
epithet  inappropriate,  when  we  remember  that  both  unite  to 
simplicity  that  subhmity  which  flames  out  of  it,  like  volcanic 
fire  starting  from  a  bare  and  bleak  surface — that  pathos  which 
searches,  in  perfect  unconsciousness,  the  inmost  depths  of  the 
soul — and  that  air  of  Eld,  which  in  both  leads  back  our  thoughts 
to  primitive  and  perished  ages,  when  the  human  heart,  the 
human  soul,  the  human  size,  were  larger  than  now — when  the 
heavens  were  nearer,  the  rddes  clearer,  the  clouds  more  gorgeous, 
the  foam  of  the  sea  brighter,  the  fat  of  the  earth  richer,  than  in 
our  degenerate  days — when  the  sense  of  the  ideal  and  the  infi- 
nite, of  the  things  unseen  and  eternal,  still  overtopped  the  seen, 
the  tangible,  and  the  temporal — when  in  our  groves  were  still 
seen  the  shadows  of  angels,  and  on  our  mountains  the  smoking 
footsteps  of  God. 

The  effect  of  Moses  upon  the  history  of  Hebrew  poetry  was, 
as  Herder  shows,  manifold.  In  the  first  place,  his  deeds — the 
plagues  he  sent  on  Egypt,  the  passage  of  the  Red  Sea,  the 
march  through  the  wilderness,  the  wars  in  which  he  led  the 
people  to  triumph — furnished  fine  poetical  subjects,  of  which 
after-writers  availed  themselves.  His  whole  system,  too,  was 
poetry  organized,  and  hence  sprung  the  songs  of  the  sanctuary 
n  David's  and  yet  later  days.  Secondly,  his  own  poems, 
though  few,  were  very  striking,  and,  both  from  their  own  power 
and  as  proceeding  from  the  great  legislator,  were  calculated  to 
exert  an  influence  on  after-poets,  who,  indeed,  made  them  their 
models.  And,  thirdly,  Moses  even  provided  for  the  revival  of 
sacred  poetry  in  times  of  declension,  by  the  privilege  he  gave 
and  secured  to  the  prophets.     They  were  the  proper  successors 

D 


74  POETRY    OF    THE    PENTATEUCH. 

of  Moses — "  watchmen  who,  when  the  priests  were  silent  and 
the  great  tyrannical,"  spoke  in  startling  truth  and  in  poetic  form 
to  the  heart  and  conscience  of  the  land.  Moses  was  the  leader 
of  this  noble  band,  and  his  deep  voice  found  in  them  a  multi- 
tude of  echoes,  till,  in  Malachi,  it  died  away  in  the  muttering 
of  the  word  "  curse,"  which,  closes  the  Old  Testament  record. 

One  great  image  in  Moses  we  must  not  overlook.  It  is  at 
the  crisis  of  the  passage  of  the  Red  Sea,  where,  as  the  Egyp- 
tians are  pressing  down  the  dry  channels,  and  treading  in  the 
shadows,  and  just  fixing  their  grasp  upon  their  foes,  the  Lord, 
through  the  pillar  of  fire  and  of  the  cloud,  looks  unto  the 
host  of  the  Egyptians,  and  troubles  them.  That  pillar  shapes 
itself  into  an  eye,  which  sends  a  separate  dismay  into  each 
Egyptian  heart,  and  all  is  felt  to  be  lost.  We  find  two  imita- 
tions of  this  in  modern  poetry — one  by  Coleridge,  in  his  "  Odo 
on  the  Departing  Year,"  where  he  prays  God  to 

**  Open  his  eye  of  fire  from  some  uncertain  cloud ;" 

and  another,  in  the  "  Curse  of  Kehama,"  where,  after  the  "  Man 
Almighty,"  holding  his  Amreeta  cup,  had  exclaimed — 

"  Now,  Seeva,  look  to  thine  abode  ! 
Henceforth,  on  equal  footing,  we  engage 
Alike  immortal  now,  and  we  shall  wage 
Our  warfare,  God  to  God," 

it  is  added,  when  the  cup  is  drank — 

"  Then  Seeva  opened  on  the  accursed  one 
His  eye  of  anger — upon  him  alone 
The  wrath-beam  fell.     He  shudders,  but  too  late." 

Thus,  by  far  the  sublimest  passage  in  Southey's  poetry  seems 
colored  by,  if  not  copied  from,  Scripture.  PharaoKs  eye  meet- 
ing JeliovaKs  in  that  grim  hour— what  a  subject  for  John 
Martin,  or  for  David  Scott,  had  he  been  alive ! 

Herder  has  not  failed  to  notice  the  air  of  solitude  which 
breathes  about  the  poetry,  as  it  did  about  the  character,  of 
Moses.    He  was  the  loneliest  of  men :  lonely  in  his  flight  from 


POETRY    OF    THE    PENTATEUCH.  '75 

Egypt — lonely  while  herding  his  flock  in  the  wilderness — lonely 
while  cUaibing  Mount  Sinai — lonely  on  the  summit,  and  lonely 
when  descending  the  sides  of  the  hill — lonely  in  his  death,  and 
lonely  in  his  burial.  Even  while  minghng  with  the  multitudes 
of  Israel,  he  remained  secluded  and  alone.  As  the  glory  which 
shone  on  his  face  insulated  him  for  a  time  from  men,  so  did  all 
his  life  his  majestic  nature.  He  was  among  men,  but  not  of 
them.  Stern  incaniation  of  the  anger  of  Omnipotence,  thy  con- 
genial companions  were  not  Aaron,  nor  Joshua,  nor  Zipporah, 
but  the  rocks  and  caves  of  Horeb,  the  fiery  pillar,  the  bush, 
burning,  the  visible  glory  of  the  sanctuary,  the  lightning- 
wreaths  round  Sinai's  sullen  brow,  and  all  other  red  symbols 
of  Jehovah's  presence  I  With  such,  like  a  kindred  fire  upon  one 
funeral  pile,  didst  thou  gloomily  embrace  and  hold  still  com- 
munion !  Shade  of  power  not  yet  perished — sole  lord  of  milHons 
still,  wielding  the  two  tables  as  the  scepters  of  thy  extant  sov- 
ereignty, with  thy  face  flashing  back  the  splendors  of  the  Divine 
eye,  and  seeming  to  descend  evermore  thy  "  Thunder-hill  of 
Fear" — it  is  with  a  feehng  of  awful  reverence  that  we  bid  thee 
farewell ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  JOB. 

Be  tlie  author  of  the  book  of  Job  who  he  may,  he  was  not 
Moses.  Nothing  can  be  more  unhke  the  curt  and  bare  sim- 
phcity  of  Moses'  style,  than  the  broad-blown  magnificence  of 
Job.  It  is  like  one  severe  feather,  compared  to  the  outspread 
wing  of  an  eagle.  Moses  had  seen  many  countries  and  many 
men,  had  studied  many  sciences,  and  passed  through  numerous 
adventures,  which  tamed,  yet  strung  his  spirit.  The  author  of 
Job  is  a  contemplative  enthusiast,  who,  the  greater  part  of  his 
life,  had  been  girt  in  by  the  rocks  of  his  country,  and  who, 
from  glowing  sand  below,  and  ghttering  crag  around,  and  torrid 
sky  above,  had  clothed  his  spirit  and  his  language  with  a  bar- 
baric splendor.  He  is  a  prince,  but  a  prince  throned  in  a  wil- 
derness— a  sage,  but  his  wisdom  has  been  taught  him  in  the 
library  of  the  everlasting  hills — a  poet,  but  his  song  is  untaught 
and  unmodified  by  art  or  learning,  as  that  in  which  the  night- 
ingale hails  the  hush  of  evening.  The  geography  of  the  land 
of  Job  is  a  commentary  on  its  poetry.  Conceive  a  land  lorded 
over  by  the  sun,  when  lightning,  rushing  in,  hke  an  angry 
painter,  did  not  dash  his  vn\d  colors  "across  the  landscape ;  a 
land  ever  in  extremes — now  dried  up  as  in  a  furnace,  now 
swimming  with  loud  waters — its  sky  the  "brightest  or  the  black- 
est of  heavens — desolate  crags  rising  above  rank  vegetation- 
beauty  adorning  the  brow  of  barrenness — shaggy  and  thunder- 
split  hills  surrounding  narrow  valleys  and  water-courses  ;  a  land 
for  a  great  part  bare  in  the  wrath  of  nature,  when  not  swaddled 
iu  sudden  tempest  and  whirlwind ;  a  land  of  lions,  and  wild 


POETRY    OF    THE    BOOK    OF    JOB.  V7 

goats,  and  wild  asses,  and  ostriches,  and  hawks  stretching  to- 
ward the  south,  and  horses  clothed  with  thunder,  and  eagles 
making  their  nests  on  high  ;  a  land  through  whose  transparent 
air  night  looked  down  in  all  her  queenlike  majesty,  all  her 
most  lustrous  ornaments  on — the  south  blazing  through  all  its 
chambers  as  w^ith  solid  gold — the  north  glorious  with  Arcturus 
and  his  sons — the  zenith  cpowning  the  heavens  with  a  diadem 
of  white,  and  blue,  and  purple  stars.  Such  the  land  in  which 
this  author  lived,  such  the  sky  he  saw  ;  and  can  we  wonder 
that  poetry  dropped  on  and  from  him,  like  rain  "from  a  thick 
tree  ;  and  that  grandeur — a  grandeur  almost  disdaining  beauty, 
preferring  firmaments  to  flowers,  making  its  garlands  of  the 
whirlwind — became  his  very  soul.  The  book  of  Job  shows  a 
mind  smit  with  a  passion  for  nature,  in  her  simplest,  most  soli- 
tary, and  elementary  forms — gazing  perpetually  at  the  great 
shapes  of  the  material  universe,  and  reproducing  to  us  the  in- 
fant infinite  wonder  with  which  the  first  inhabitants  of  the 
world  must  have  seen  their  first  sunrise,  their  first  thunder- 
storm, their  first  moon  waning,  their  first  midnight  heaven  ex- 
panding, like  an  arch  of  triumph,  over  their  happy  heads.  One 
object  of  the  book  is  to  prophesy  of  nature — to  declare  its  tes- 
timony to  the  Most  High — to  unite  the  leaves  of  its  trees,  the 
wings  of  its  fowls,  the  eyes  of  its  stars,  in  one  act  of  adoration 
to  Jehovah.  August  undertaking,  and  meet  for  one  reared  in 
the  desert,  anointed  with  the  dew  of  heaven,  and  by  God  him- 
self inspired. 

If  any  one  w^ord  can  express  the  merit  of  the  natural  descrip- 
tions in  Job,  it  is  the  word  gusto.  You  do  something  more 
than  see  his  behemoth,  his  war-horse,  and  his  leviathan  :  you 
touch,  smell,  hear,  and  handle  them  too.  It  is  no  shrrziow  of 
the  object  he  sets  before  you,  but  the  object  itself,  in  its  length, 
breadth,  height,  and  thickness.  In  this  point,  he  is  the  Land- 
seer  of  ancient  poetry,  and  something  more.  That  great  painter 
seems,  every  one  knows,  to  become  the  animal  he  is  painting — 
to  intermingle  his  soul  for  a  season  with  that  of  the  stag,  the 
horse,  or  the  bloodhound.     So  Job,  with  the  war-horse,  swal- 


•^8  POETRY    OF   THE    BOOK  OF    JOB. 

lows  the  ground  with  fierceness  and  rage — with  behemoth,  moves 
his  tail  hke  a  cedar — with  the  eagle,  smells  the  slain  afar  off, 
and  screams  with  shrill  and  far-heard  joy.  In  the  presence 
of  Landseer's  figures,  you  become  inspired  by  the  pervading* 
spirit  of  the  picture — you  start  back,  lest  his  sleeping  blood- 
hound awake — you  feel  giddy  beside  his  stag  on  the  brow  of 
the  mountain — you  look  at  his  greyhound's  beauty,  almost  with 
the  admiration  which  he  might  be  supposed  to  feel,  glancing  at 
his  own  figure,  during  his  leap  across  the  stream.  Job's  ani- 
mals seem  almost  higher  than  nature's.  You  hear  God  describ- 
ing and  panegyrizing  his  own  works,  and  are  not  ashamed  to 
feel  yourself  pawing  and  snorting  with  his  charger — carrying 
away  your  wild  scorn  and  untamable  freedom,  with  the  ostrich, 
into  the  wilderness — or,  with  behemoth,  drawing  in  Jordan  into 
your  mouth.  It  may  be  questioned  if  Landseer  has  the  very 
highest  imagination — if  he  be  not  rather  a  literal  than  an  ideal 
painter — if  he  could,  or  durst,  go  down  after  Jonah  into  the 
whale,  or  exchange  souls  with  the  mammoth  or  megatherium  ? 
Job  uniformly  transcends,  while  sympathizing  with  his  subjects 
— casts  on  them  a  light  not  their  own,  as  from  the  "  eyelids  of 
the  morning  ;"  and  the  greater  the  subject  is,  he  occupies  and 
fills  it  with  the  more  ease :  he  dandles  his  leviathan  like  a  kid. 
Landseer  we  have  charged,  elsewhere,  with  almost  an  inhuman 
sympathy  with  brutes  ;  and  a  moral  or  religious  lesson  can  with 
difficulty  be  gathered  from  his  pictures — his  dying  deer  M^ould 
tempt  you,  by  their  beauty,  to  renew  the  tragedy  ;  but  Deus  est 
anima  hrutorum  hangs  suspended  over  Job's  colossal  drawings, 
and,  as  in  fable,  all  his  animals  utter  a  moral  while  passing  on 
before  you.  Near  those  descriptions  of  his,  we  can  place  noth- 
ing in  picture,  prose,  or  poetry,  save  such  lines  in  Milton  as 
that  describing  leviathan — 

"  Whom  God 
Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean  stream  ;" 
or  Blake's  lines — 

"  Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  tlie  deserts  of  the  niarht. 


POETRY    OF    THE    BOOK    OF    JOB.  ^9 

"What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Framed  thy  fearful  symmetry  ?" 

Besides  those  natural  descriptions,  the  poetic  elements  in  Job 
may  be  included  under  the  following: — The  scene  in  heaven, 
the  calamities  of  Job,  his  first  expression  of  anguish,  the  vision 
of  Eliphaz,  the  moral  pictures  which  abound,  the  praise  of  Wis- 
dom, the  entrance  of  the  Deity,  the  beauty  of  the  close,  and, 
above  all,  the  great  argument  pervading  the  whole.  The  scene 
in  heaven  has  always  been  admired,  and  often  imitated.  It 
struck  Byron  much ;  particularlj^  the  thought  of  Satan  being 
actually  brought  back,  as  by  an  invisible  chain,  to  the  court  of 
heaven,  and  compelled  to  witness  its  felicity,  and  subserve  the 
purposes  of  God.  Shelley,  again,  meditated  a  tragedy  on  the 
subject,  which  would  have  been,  probably^,  a  very  daring  and 
powerful  accommodation  of  Job  to  his  own  unhappy  notions. 
Goethe,  in  his  "  Faust,"  and  Bayley,  in  his  "  Festus,"  have  both 
imitated  this  scen€.  It  abound^  at  once  in  poetic  interest  and 
profound  meaninp^.  Job  has  previously  been  pictured  sitting  in 
peace  and  prosperity  under  his  vine  and  fig-tree.  He  has  little 
about  him  to  excite  any  peculiar  interest.  Suddenly  the  blue 
curtain  of  the  sky  over  his  head  seems  to  open,  the  theater  of 
the  highest  heaven  .expands,  and  of  certain  great  transactions 
there  he  becomes  the  unconscious  center.  What  a  background 
now  has  that  still  figure  !  Thus  every  man  always  is  the  hero 
of  a  triumph  or  a  tragedy  as  wide  as  the  universe.  Thus 
"each"  is  always  linked  to  "all."  Thus  above  each  world,  too, 
do  heaven  and  hell  stand  continually,  like  the  dark  and  the 
bright  suns  of  astronomy,  and  the  planets  between  them.  In 
that  highest  heaven,  a'  da}''  has  dawned  of  solemn  conclave. 
From  their  thousand  missions  of  justice  and  mercy  return  the 
sons  of  God,  to  report  their  work  and  their  tidings ;  and  inas- 
much as  their  work  has  been  done,  their  aspects  are  equally 
tranquil,  whether  their  tidings  are  evil  or  good.  But,  behind 
them, 

"  A  spirit  of  a  different  aspect  waved 

His  ■wings,  lijje  thunderclouds,  above  some  coast, 


80  POETRY    OF    THE    BOOK    OF   JOB. 

"Whose  barren  beach  with  frequent  wrecks  is  paved; 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  tempest- tost." 

He  is  a  black  spot  in  this  "  feast  of  charity,"  a  scowl  amid  this 
splendor,  and  yet  acts  as  only  a  foil  to  its  beauty  and  bright- 
ness. Thus  all  things  and  beings  are  in  perpetual  communica- 
tion with  their  center — God ;  thus  even  evil  brings  in  its  dark, 
barbaric  tribute,  and  lays  it  down  at  his  feet,  and  there  is  no 
energy  in  the  universe  so  eccentric  as  not  to  have  a  path  and 
perihelion  around  the  central  sun. 

Turning  aside  from  the  multitude  of  worshipers,  the  Al- 
mighty questions  the  grim  spirit,  "  Whence  coniest  thou  ?" — 
not,  in  surprise,  "  thou  here  ?"  but,  in  inquiiy,  "  ivhence  hast 
thou  now  come  ?"  The  reply  is,  "  From  going  to  and  fro  in 
the  earth."  Yes  !  the  earth  seems  ever  that  spot  of  creation 
round  which  hifyher  Intel] io-ences  throno-  not  on  account  of  the 
paltry  stakes  of  battles  and  empires  being  played  therein,  but 
because  there  a  mightier  game,  as  to  the  reconciliation  of  man 
with  God  (thrilHng,  though  simple  words  !  words  containing  in 
them  the  problem  of  all  theology  !),  is  advancing  with  dubious 
aspect,  though  with  certain  issue.  One  man  in  the  land  of  Uz 
seems  to  have  attained  the  solution  of  that  problem.  He  is  at 
once  virtuous  and  prosperous.  .Adored  by  men,  he  adores  God. 
He  is  wise,  without  any  special  inspiration.  He  is  perfect,  but 
not  through  suffering.  He  is  clean,  without  atonement.  This 
man  is  pointed  out  by  God  to  Satan,  "  Behold  the  type  of  the 
Good  Man  !  what  thinkest  thou  of  him  ?  Canst  thou  perceive 
any  flav;  in  his  character  ?  Is  he  not  at  once  great  and  good  ?" 
The  subtile  spirit  rejoins  "  that  he  has  never  been  tried.  He  is 
pious  because  prosperous ;  let  afflictions  strip  away  his  green 
leaves,  and  they  will  discover  a  skeleton  stretching  out  arms  of 
defiance  to  heaven ;  or  should  the  tree,  remaining  itself  unrau- 
tilated,  though  stripped  of  its  foliage,  droop  in  submission,  yet 
let  its  trunk  be  touched  and  blasted,  curses  will  come  groaning 
np  from  the  root  to  the  topmost  twig,  and,  falling,  it  will  bow 
in  blasphemy,  not  in  prayer."  AVhat  is  this,  but  a  version  of 
the  fiendish  insinuation,  that  there  is  no  real  worth  or  virtue  in 


POETRY    OF    THE    BOOK    OF    JOB.  8t: 

man  but  circumstances  may  overturn ;  that  religion  is  just  a  form 
of  refined  selfishness  ;  and  that  no  mode  of  dealing,  whether 
adverse  or  prosperous,  on  the  part  of  God,  can  produce  the  de- 
sired reconciliation.  And  the  purpose  of  the  entire  after-book 
is,  in  reply,  to  prove  that  afiuiiction,  while  stripping  the  tree, 
and  even  touching  its  inner  life,  only  confirms  its  roots — that 
affliction  not  only  tries,  but  purifies  and  tends  to  perfect,  the 
suflferer — that  individual  suffering  does  not  furnish  an  adequate 
index  to  individual  culpability — that  the  tendency  of  suffering  is 
to  throw  back  the  sufferer  into  the  arms  of  the  Great  Inflictor,  and 
to  suggest  the  necessity  of  the  medium  which  can  alone  complete 
reconciliation,  that,  narael}^  of  intercessory  sacrifice — that  there 
is  something  higher  than  peace  or  happiness — and,  finallv,  that 
all  this  casts  a  softening  and  clearing  luster  upon  the  sad  mys- 
teries of  the  world,  as  well  as  proves  the  necessity,  asserts  the 
possibility,  assigns  the  means,  and  predicts  the  attainment,  of 
final  reconciliation.  But  this  reply^  which  is  the  argument  of 
the  poem,  falls  to  bo  considered  afterward.  The  two  first 
chapters  are  a  full  statement,  in  concrete  form,  of  the  grand 
difficulty. 

The  thick  succession  of  Job's  calamities  is  one  of  the  most 
striking  passages  in  the  poem.  The  conduct  of  Ford's  heroine, 
who  continues  to  dance  on  while  news  of  "  death,  and  death, 
and  death,"  of  brother,  friend,  husband,  are  brought  her  in  suc- 
cession, her  heart,  the  while,  breaking  in  secret,  has  been  much 
admired.  But  princelier  still,  and  more  natural,  the  figure  of  the 
patient  patriarch,  seated  at  his  tent-door,  and  listening  to  mes- 
sage after  message  of  spoil,  conflagration,  ruin,  and  death,  till, 
in  the  course  of  one  curdling  hour  of  agony,  he  finds  himself 
flockless,  serfless,  childless,  a  beggar  and  a  wreck  amid  all  the 
continued  insignia  of  almost  royal  magnificence.  But  his  heart 
breaks  not.  He  does  not  dash  away  into  the  wilderness.  He 
does  not  throw  himself  on  the  ground.  He  does  not  tear  his 
white  hair  in  agony.  AVith  decent  and  manly  sorrow,  he  in- 
deed shaves  his  head,  and  rends,  after  the  custom  of  his  coun- 
try, his  raiment.     But  his  language  is,  "  Naked  came  I  out  of 


82  tOETRY    OF   THE   BOOK    OF   JOB. 

my  motlier's  womb,  and  naked  shall  I  return  tliither  ;  tlie  Lord 
gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away  ;  blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord."  From  some  clime  of  eternal  calm  seem  those  ac- 
cents to  descend.  TJie  plaints  of  Prometheus  and  Lear  come 
from  a  lower  region.  The  old  tree  has  been  sliorn  by  a  swift- 
running  and  all-encompassing  fire  of  its  ftiir  foliage  :  but  it  has 
bent  its  head  in  reverence  before  the  whirlwind,  ere  it  passed 
away.  In  sculpture,  there  are  a  silence  and  a  calm  which,  in  na- 
ture, are  only  found  in  parts  and  parcels — a  stillness  within 
stillness — the  hushing  of  a  hush.  But  not  sculpture  itself  can 
fully  express  the  look  of  resignation  (as  if  all  calamity  were 
met  and  subdued  by  it)  which  Job's  countenance  returned  to  that 
sky  of  ruin  which  suddenly  lowered  over  the  tent  of  his  fathers. 

But,  alas  !  all  calamity  was  not  met  and  subdued  by  it. 
Other  griefs  were  in  store,  and  the  iron  must  enter  into  his 
soul.  His  patient  resolve,  firm  as  the  "sinew"  of  leviathan, 
was  at  last  subdued  ;  and  there  broke  forth  from  him  that  tre- 
mendous curse,  which  has  made  the  third  chapter  of  Job  dear 
to  all  the  miserable.  Who  can  forget  the  figure  of  Swift,  each 
revolving  birthday,  retiring  into  his  closet,  shutting  the  door 
behind  him — not  to  fast  or  to  pray,  but  to  read  this  chapter,  per- 
haps, with  wild  sobs  of  self  application  ?  Nor  could  even  he 
wring  out  thus  the  last  drops  of  its  bitterness.  It  is  still  a 
Marah,  near  which  you  trace  many  miserable  footsteps  ;  and 
never,  while  misery  exists,  can  its  dreary  grandeur,  its  passion 
for  death,  the  beauty  it  pours  upon  the  grave,  the  darkness 
which,  collecting  from  all  glooms  and  solitudes,  it  bows  down 
upon  the  one  fatal  day  of  birth,  be  forgotten.  "  Let  them 
bless  it  that  curse  the  day,"  for  surely  it  is  the  most  piercing 
cry  ever  uttered  in  this  world  of  "lamentations,  mourning, 
and  woe." 

In  describing  an  apparition,  as  in  describing  all  the  other  ob- 
jects collected  in  his  poem,  the  author  of  Job  has  this  advantage 
— his  is,  so  far  as  we  know,  the  first. 

"  He  is  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea" 


POETRY    OF   THE    BOOK    OF   JOB.  83 

of  shadows,  dreams,  and  all  the  other  fears  and  marvels  of  the 
night.  Is  it  asked,  how  ought  an  apparition  to  be  represented? 
We  reply,  as  it  ought  to  be  seen.  With  a  certain  preceding  con- 
sciousness, the  shadow  of  the  approaching  shade,  with  fear 
shaking  every  bone,  but  ovei"powering  no  part  of  the  man — 
with  hair  shivering,  but  with  eye  fixed  and  strained  in  piercing 
intensity  of  vision — -with  the  perception  of  a  form  without  dis- 
tinct outline,  of  a  motion  without  sound,  of  a  fixed  position 
without  figure,  of  a  voice  so  faint,  "  that  nothing  hves  'twixt  it 
and  silence" — with  a  strange  spiritual  force  from  within  rising 
up  to  bear  the  burden,  and  meet  the  communion  of  an  unearthly 
presence — and  with  the  passing  away  of  that  burden,  like  the 
gradual  dropping  of  a  load  of  heavy  gloom  from  the  mind  ;  thus 
could  we  conceive  a  man,  bold  in  spirit,  strong  in  health,  and 
firm  in  faith,  meeting  a  messenger  from  the  dead.  And  thus 
has  Eliphaz  described  his  visitor.  It  is  the  hour  of  night.  He 
is  alone  on  his  couch.  A  shudder,  like  the  sigh  of  a  spirit,  passes 
over  him.  This  shudder  strengthens  till  every  fiber  of  his  frame 
shakes.  Then  he  becomes  "  aware"  of  the  presence  and  transit 
of  a  spiritual  being,  and  every  hair  on  his  flesh  starts  up  to  do 
him  homage.  This  motion  not  heard,  stills  into  a  form  not  seen. 
In  awful  balance  between  matter  and  spiiit,  hangs  the  dim  shade 
before  the  strained,  yet  unmaddened  eye.  And  then  a  voice, 
fainter  than  a  whisper,  but  more  distinct,  trembling  between 
sound  and  silence,  is  heard,  "  How  can  man  be  more  just  than 
God,  or  mortal  man  more  just  than  his  Maker  ?"  To  paint  a 
shade  is  surely  the  most  difficult  of  achievements.  But  here 
EHphaz  seizes,  in  the  inspired  glance  of  one  sentence,  the 
middle  point  vibrating  between  the  two  worlds.  Xot  so  suc- 
cessfully has  Milton  assayed  to  set  chaos  before  us,  in  language 
jarring  and  powerful  almost  as  the  tumultuous  surge  it  describes, 
and  by  images  culled  from  all  elements  of  contradiction,  con^ 
fusion,  and  unrule. 

Innumerable  since  have  been  the  poetical  descriptions,  as 
"well  as  pictorial  representations,  of  ghosts  and  ghost-scenes. 
But  the  majority  are  either  too  gross  or  too  shadowy.    Some  have 


84  POETRY    OF   THE    BOOK    OF   JOB. 

painted  their  ghosts  too  minutely ;  they  have  made  an  inven- 
tory of  a  spirit — head,  hair,  teeth,  feet,  dress,  and  all,  are  lite- 
rally represented,  till  our  terror  sinks  into  disgust,  or  explodes 
into  laughter.  Thus  Monk  Lewis  describes  his  fiend,  as  hoarse 
with  the  vapors  of  hell.  Thus,  while  Shakspeare  clothes  his 
ghost  with  complete  steel,  an  inferior  genius  since  makes  the 
steel  of  his  ghostly  warrior  red-hot.  Others  dilute  their  vapory 
apparitions  till  they  vanish  quite  away.  One  author  is  deep  in 
the  knowledge  of  panic  terror  (Brockden  Brown).  He  makes 
you  fear  as  much  in  company  as  alone,  as  much  at  noon  as  at 
midnight — he  separates  the  shiver  of  supernatural  fear  from  the 
consciousness  of  a  supernatural  presence,  and  gives  you  it  en- 
tire, "  hfting  the  skin  from  the  scalp  to  the  ankles."  But  this, 
though  a  rare  power,  evades  the  difficulty  of  representing  a 
spirit.  Perhaps  Scott,  the  painter,  and  Southey,  the  poet,  have 
succeeded  best :  Scott  in  his  Demon  of  the  Cape  appearing  to 
Vasco  de  Gama,  and  Southey  in  his  famed  description  of  Ar- 
valan  appearing  to  Kailyal. 

"  A  nearer  horror  met  the  maiden's  view ; 
For  right  before  her  a  dim  form  appeared — 
A  human  form  in  that  black  night, 
Distinctly  shaped  by  its  own  lurid  light — 
Such  light  as  the  sickly  moon  is  seen  to  shed 
Through  spell-raised  fogs,  a  bloody,  baleful  red. 
That  specter  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  full ; 
The  light  which  shone  in  their  accursed  orbs 

"Was  like  a  light  from  hell, 
And  it  grew  deeper,  kindling  with  the  view. 

She  could  not  turn  her  sight 
From  that  infernal  gaze,  which,  like  a  spell. 
Bound  her,  and  held  her  rooted  to  the  ground. 

It  palsied  every  power. 
Her  limbs  availed  her  not  in  that  dread  hour ; 

There  was  no  moviug  thence. 

Tliought,  memory,  sense,  were  gone. 
She  heard  not  now  the  tiger's  nearer  cry ; 

She  thought  not  on  her  father  now  ; 

Her  cold  heart's-blood  ran  back  ; 


POETRY    OF   THE    BOOK    OF   JOB.  85 

Her  hand  lay  senseless  on  the  bough  it  clasped ; 

Her  feet  were  motionless  ; 

Her  fascinated  eyes, 
Like  the  stone  eyeballs  of  a  statue,  fixed, 
Yet  conscious  of  the  sight  that  blasted  them." 

This  is  genius,  but  genius  laboring  to  be  afraid.  In  Job,  it  is 
mere  man  trembling  in  the  presence  of  a  spiritual  power. 

The  moral  pictures  in  Job  are  even  more  wonderful,  when  we 
consider  the  period.  Society  was  then  a  narrow  word — a  co-. 
lossal  fixture,  without  play,  fluctuation,  or  fluent,  onward  motion. 
From  this,  you  might  have  expected  much  sameness  in  the  de- 
scriptions of  character  ;  and  yet  there  is  a  great  variety.  In  the 
several  pictures  of  the  misery  of  the  wicked,  not  only  is  the 
imagery  almost  p)rodigally  varied,  but  there  are  new  traits  of 
character  introduced  into  each.  Job's  account  of  the  state  of 
his  prosperity  is  famous  for  redundancy  of  beautiful  figures.  It 
is  itself  a  cornucopia.  And  how  interesting  the  glimpses  given 
us  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  a  pastoral  and  primitive  age  ! 
None  of  the  landscapes  of  Claude  Titian  or  Poussin  equal  these. 
"We  see 

^      "A  pastoral  people,  native  there, 

Who,  from  the  Elysian,  soft,  and  sunny  air, 
Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold, 
Simple  and  generous,  innocent  and  bold." 

All  that  has  since  occurred  on  the  bustling  stage  of  the  vv'orld 
is  forgotten  as  a  dream.  That  innocent,  beautiful  hfe  seems 
the  only  reality. 

The  praise  of  wisdom  must  not  be  overlooked.  It  is  the  an- 
ticipation of  an  answer  to  Pilate's  question,  "  What  is  truth  ?" 
That  did  not,  or  at  least  ought  not  to  have  meant,  what  is  the 
absolu(3  truth  of  all  things  ? — a  question  equivalent  to,  what  is 
Omniscience  ? — but,  what  is  that  portion  of  the  universal  truth, 
•what  the  extract  from  its  volume,  which  can  satisfy  the  soul, 
coincide  with  conscience,  give  a  sense  of  safety,  and  form  a  firm 
pillow  for  the  bed  of  death  ? 


86  POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  JOB/ 

To  this  question,  many  insufficient  and  evasive  answers  have 
been  returned.  Science  has  sought  for  truth  in  fields,  and 
niines,  and  furnaces — in  atoms  and  in  stars — and  has  found 
many  glittering  particles,  but  not  any  such  lump  of  pure  gold, 
any  such  "  sum  of  saving  knowledge,"  as  is  entitled  to  the  name 
of  the  truth.  "  The  sea  saith,  It  is  not  in  me."  The  truth 
grows  not  among  the  flowers  of  the  field,  sparkles  not  among 
the  gems  of  the  mine ;  no  crucible  can  extract  it  from  the  fur- 
nace, no  microscope  detect  it  in  the  depths,  and  no  telescope 
descry  it  in  the  heights  of  nature.  Art,  too,  has  advanced  to  re- 
ply. Her  votaries  have  gazed  at  the  loveliness  of  creation  ;  they 
have  listened  to  her  voice,  they  have  watched  the  stately  steps  of 
her  processes  ;  and  that  loveliness  they  have  sought  to  imitate  in 
painting,  those  steps  to  follow  in  architecture,  and  those  voices 
to  repeat  in  music  and  in  song.  But  painting  must  whisper 
back  to  poetry,  poetry  repeat  to  music,  and  music  wail  out  to 
architecture — "  It  is  not  in  us."  Others,  again,  have  followed  a 
bolder  course.  Regarding  art  as  trifling,  and  even  science  as 
shallow,  they  have  aspired  to  enter  with  philosophy  into  the 
springs  and  secrets  of  things,  and  to  compel  truth  herself  to 
answer  them  from  her  inmost  shrine.  But  too  often,  in  propor- 
tion to  their  ambition,  has  been  their  failure.  We  sickefl  as  we 
remember  the  innumerable  attempts  which  have  been  made, 
even  by  the  mightiest  minds,  to  solve  the  insoluble,  to  measure 
the  immense,  to  explain  the  mysterious.  From  such  have 
proceeded  many  cloudy  falsehoods,  a  few  checkered  gleams,  of 
clear  light  little,  but  the  truth  has  still  remained  afar.  "  The 
depth  saith.  Not  in  me."  Nay,  others  have,  in  desperation, 
plunged,  professedly  in  search  of  truth,  into  pleasure  or  guilt ; 
they  have  gone  to  hell-gate  itself,  and  have  asked,  Does  the 
truth  dwell  here  ?  but  destruction  and  death  only  say,  with 
hollow  laughter,  "We  have  heard  the  fame  of  it  with  our 
ears." 

Standing  above  the  prospective  wreck  of  all  such  abortive 
replies  the  author  of  Job  discloses  that  path  which  the  "vul- 
ture's eye  hath  not  seen,"  and  the  gates  of  which  no  golden  key 


-POETRY    OF    THE    BOOK    OF   JOB.  87 

can  open — "  Behold,  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  that  is  wisdom ; 
and  to  depart  from  evil  is  understanding."  Simple  the  finger- 
post, but  it  points  out  the  truth.  Here,  at  last,  we  find  that 
portion  of  the  universal  knowledge,  truth,  or  wiodom,  which 
satisfies  without  cloying  the  mind — which  reflects  the  inner 
man  of  the  heart  as  "  face,  face  in  a  glass" — which  gives  a 
feeling  of  firm  ground  below  us,  firm  if  there  be  terra  firma  in 
the  universe — and  on  which  have  reposed,  in  death,  the  wisest 
of  mankind.  Newton  laid  not  his  djing  head  on  his  "  Prin- 
cipia,"  but  on  his  Bible ;  Cowper,  not  on  his  "  Task,"  but  on 
his  Testament;  Hall,  not  on  his  wide  fame,  but  on  his  "humble 
hope ;"  Michael  Angelo,  not  on  that  pencil  which  alone  coped 
with  the  grandeurs  of  the  "Judgment,"  but  on  that  grace 
which,  for  him,  shore  the  judgment  of  its  terrors  ;  Coleridge, 
not  on  his  limitless  genius,  but  on  "Mercy  for  praise,  to  be 
forgiven  for  fame."  Often  must  the  wanderer  amid  American 
forests  lay  his  head  upon  a  rude  log,  while  above  it  is  the  abyss 
of  stars.  Thus  the  weary,  heavy-laden,  dying  Christian  leans 
upon  the  rugged  and  narrow  Cross,  but  looks  up  the  while  to 
the  beaming  canopy  of  immortal  hfe — to  those  "things  which 
are  above." 

Calmly  does  Job  propound  the  great  maxim  of  man,  though 
it  might  have  justified  even  excess  of  rapture.  Archimedes  ran 
out  shouting  "  Eureka  !"  Had  he  found  the  truth  ?  No,  but  only- 
one  golden  sand  upon  the  shore  of  science.  Nay,  though  he 
had  found  out  all  natural  knowledge  at  once  ;  suppose  he  had, 
by  one  glance  of  genius,  descried  the  axletree  whence  shoot 
out  all  the  spokes  of  scientific  truth — though  louder  far,  in  this 
case,  had  been  his  Eureka,  and  deeper  far  his  joy — would  he 
have  found  the  truth  ?  No  ;  it  was  in  the  wilderness  of  Arabia, 
and  to  the  heart  of  an  holy  herdsman,  that  this  inspiration  at 
first  came,  and  no  cry  of  triumph  proclaimed  its  coming,  and 
no  echo  then  reverberated  it  to  the  nations. 

The  entrance  of  the  Deity  into  this  poem  is  the  most  daring 
and  the  most  successful  of  all  poetic  interventions.  God  him- 
self turns  the  scale  of  the  great  argument.     The  bearing  of 


88  POETRY   OF    THE   BOOK    OF   JOB. 

his  speech  upon  the  whole  scope  of  the  poem  fiills  afterward 
to  be  noted.  Meantira.e  let  us  look  at  the  circumstances  of 
his  appearance,  and  at  the  mode  of  his  utterance.  The  dis- 
putants have  enveloped  themselves  in  a  cloud  of  words.  A 
whirlwind  must  now  scatter  it.  They  have  been  looking  at 
the  silver  and  golden  sides  of  the  shield ;  both  must  now  be 
blended  and  lost  in  the  common  darkness  of  the  shadow  of 
God.  No  vehicle  for  this  awful  umpire  like  a  whirlwind.  We 
can  not  paint  an  oriental  whirlwind  ;  but,  some  years  ago,  on  a 
Sabbath  afternoon,  we  saw  a  spectacle  we  shall  never  forget. 
It  was  the  broad,  bright,  smothering  sunshine  of  an  August 
day.  Not  a  speck  was  visible  on  the  heavens,  save  one  in  the 
far  south.  Suddenly,  as  w^e  gaze,  that  one  speck  broadens, 
darkens,  opens  into  black  wings,  shuts  again  into  a  mass  of 
solid  gloom,  rushes  then,  like  a  chariot  of  darkness,  northward 
over  the  sky,  till,  in  less  time  than  we  have  taken  to  write  these 
words,  there  is,  over  all  the  visible  heaven  and  earth,  the  wail 
of  wind,  the  roar  of  thunder,  the  pattering  of  hail,  the  foil  of 
rain,  the  -flash  of  lightning,  and  the  rushing  of  swift  waters 
along  the  ground.  "  It  is  a  vv'hirlwind !''  we  exclaimed,  as, 
like  a  huge  sudden  apparition,  it  seemed  to  stand  up  between 
us  and  the  summer  sky.  "  With  God  is  terrible  majesty." 
From  such  a  car  might  an  angry  Deity  descend.  Out  of 
such  a  black  orchestra  might  God  speak,  and  all  flesh  be  silent 
before  him. 

The  speech  is  worthy  of  the  accompaniments  and  of  the 
speaker.  It  is  a  series  of  questions  following  each  other  like 
claps  of  thunder.  Have  our  readers  never  fancied,  during  a 
thunder-storm,  that  each  new  peal  was  an  ironical  question,  pro- 
posed to  the  conscience  from  the  cloud,  and  succeeded  by  a 
pause  of  silence  more  satirical  still  ?  Thus,  God  from  his 
heaven,  while  pointing  to  his  gallery  of  works,  rising  in  climax 
to  leviathan,  laughs  at  the  baffled  power  and  wisdom  of  man ; 
and  terrible  is  the  glory  of  his  snorting  nostrils.  The  "  ques- 
tion" in  composition  is  often  as  searching  and  stringent  as  was 
the  "question"  of  old  in  law.     Abrupt,  jagged,  unanswered,  it 


POETRY    OF   THE    BOOK    OF   JOB.  89 

gives  an  idea  of  the  Infinite,  sucTi  as  is  given  by  a  bust,  or  tbe 
broken  limb  of  a  statue.  The  slight  tinge  of  contempt  which 
mingles  with  it  adds  a  strange  flavor  to  its  interest ;  and,  when 
repeated,  it  sounds  like  the  voice  of  a  warrior,  shouting  trium- 
phantly in  the  ear  of  his  dead,  unreplying  foeman.  So  have 
the  masters  of  writing  used  it.  Demosthenes  abounds  in  what 
Hall  calls  those  terrible  interrogations,  by  which,  after  pros- 
trating his  opponents  in  argument,  he  proceeds  to  trample  them 
in  the  mire — reserving  them,  however,  wisely,  for  the  close  of  his 
orations.  Barrow  pursues  some  of  his  longest  and  finest  trains 
of  reasoning  in  this  form.  But  the  great  modern  master  of  this 
impressive  inversion  of  truth  is  Foster,  who  never  fails,  in  his 
"Essays,"  thus  to  cite  the  conscience  or  the  soul  to  his  bar,  and 
cross-examine  it  amid  such  silence  as  the  judgment-seat  may 
witness,  when  a  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  is  summoned  to  put  in 
her  plea.  In  Job,  the  questions  of  God  form  the  climax  of  the 
poem.  You  feel  that  they  reach  the  highest  possible  point  of 
sublimity ;  and  the  pause  which  follows  is  profound  as  the 
stilhiess  of  the  grave.  The  voice  even  of  poetic  melody,  im- 
mediately succeeding,  had  seemed  impertinent  and  feeble.  The 
cry  of  penitence  and  humihty,  "  Behold,  I  am  vile,"  is  alone  fit 
to  follow  such  a  burst,  and  to  cleave  such  a  silence. 

To  put  suitable  language  into  the  mouth  of  Deity,  has  gene- 
rally tasked  to  straining,  or  crushed  to  feebleness,  the  genius  of 
poets.  Homer,  indeed,  at  times,  nobly  ventriloquizes  from  the 
top  of  Olympus ;  but  it  is  ventriloquism — the  voice  of  a  man, 
not  of  a  God — Homer's  thunder,  not  Jove's.  Milton,  while 
impersonating  God,  falls  flat ;  he  peeps  and  mutters  from  the 
dust;  he  shrinks  from  seeking  to  fill  up  the  compass  of  the 
Eternal's  voice.  Adequately  to  represent  God  speaking,  required 
not  only  the  highest  inspiration,  but  that  the  poet  had  heard,  or 
thought  he  had  heard,  his  very  voice  shaping  articulate  sounds 
from  midnight  torrents,  from  the  voices  of  the  wind,  from  the 
chambers  of  the  thunder,  from  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind,  from 
the  hush  of  night,  and  from  the  breeze  of  the  day.  And,  doubt- 
less, the  author  of  Job  had  had  this  experience.     He  had  lain  on 


90  POETRY    OF    THE    BOOK    OF   JOB. 

his  bed  at  niglit,  while  his  tent  was  shaking  with  what  seemed 
the  deep  syllables  of  Jehovah's  voice.  lie  had  heard  God  in  the 
waters,  unchained  by  midnight  silence,  and  speaking  to  the  stars. 
In  other  nameless  and  homeless  sounds  of  the  wilderness,  he 
had  fancied  distinct  words  of  counsel  or  of  warning ;  and  when 
he  came  to  frame  a  speech  for  God,  did  he  not  tune  it  to  the 
rhythm  of  those  well-remembered  accents ;  and  on  these,  as  on 
wings,  did  not  his  soul  soar  upward  into  the  highest  heaven  of 
song  ?  Some  poems  have  risen  to  the  note  of  the  flute,  and 
others  to  the  swell  of  the  organ ;  but  this  highest  reach  of 
poetry  rose  to  the  music  of  the  mightiest  and  oldest  elements 
of  nature  combining  to  form  the  various  parts  in  the  one  voice 
of  God.  And  how  this  whirlwind  of  poetry,  onc^  aroused, 
storms  along — how  it  ruffles  the  foundations  of  the  earth — how 
it  churns  up  the  ocean  into  spray — how  it  unvails  the  old  treas- 
ures of  the  hail  and  the  snow — how  it  soars  up  to  the  stars — 
how  the  "  lightnings  say  to  it.  Here  we  are" — how,  stooping 
from  this  pitch,  it  sweeps  over  the  curious,  noble,  or  terrible 
creatures  of  the  bard's  country,  rousing  the  mane  of  the  lion, 
stirring  the  still  horror  (5f  the  raven's  wing,  racing  with  the 
wild  ass  into  the  wilderness,  flying  with  the  eagle  and  the  hawk, 
shortening  speed  over  the  lazy  vastness  of  behemoth,  awaken- 
ing the  thunder  of  the  horse's  neck,  and  daring  to  "  open  the 
doors  of  the  face,"  with  the  teeth  "  terrible  round  about"  of 
leviathan  himself!  The  truth,  the  literal  exactness,  the  fresh- 
ness, fire,  and  rapidity  of  the  figures  presented,  resemble  less 
the  slow,  elaborate  work  of  a  painter,  than  a  succession  of  pic- 
tures, taken  instantaneously  by  the  finger  of  the  sun,  and  true 
to  the  smallest  articulation  of  the  burning  life. 

The  close  of  the  poem,  representing  Job's  renewed  prosperity, 
is  in  singular  contrast  with  the  daring  machinery  and  rich 
imagery  of  the  rest  of  the  book.  It  is  simple  and  strange  as  a 
nursery  tale.  By  a  change  as  sudden  as  surprising,  the  wheel 
turns  completely  round.  Job  rises  from  the  dust ;  a  golden 
shower  descends,  in  the  form  of  troops  of  friends,  bringing  with 
them  silver  and  gold ;  sheep  and  oxen,  as  if  rising  from  the 


POETRY   OF   THE    BOOK    OF    JOB.  91 

eartb,  fill  his  folds ;  new  sons  and  daughters  are  born  to  him ; 
the  broad  tree  over  his  tent  blooms  and  blossoms  again  ;  and 
long,  seated  under  its  shadow,  may  he  look  ere  he  descry  other 
messengers  arriving  breathless  to  announce  the  tidings  of  other 
woes.  In  Blake's  illustrations  of  this  book,  not  the  least  inter- 
esting or  significant  print  is  that  representing  the  aged  patriarch, 
seated  in  peace,  surrounded  by  a  multitude  of  singing  men  and 
singing  women  ;  camels,  sheep,  and  oxen  grazing  in  the  dis- 
tance;  and,  from  above,  God  (an  exact  likeness  of  Job)  smiling, 
well-pleased,  upon  this  full-length  portrait  of  the  man  perfect 
throuo'h  sufferinor — the  reconciled  man. 

Perhaps,  when  Blake  himself  expired,  the  true  and  only  key 
to  his  marvelous  book  of  Illustrations  (less  a  commentary  on 
Job,  than  a  fine  though  inferior  variation  of  it)  was  lost.  It 
were  vain  to  recount  the  innumerable  interpretations  of  the 
poem  given  by  more  prosaic  minds  than  Blake^s.  Our  notion 
has  been  already  indicated.  We  think  Job  a  dramatic  and 
allegorical  representation  of  the  necessity,  means,  and  conse- 
quences of  the  reconciliation  of  man  the  individual,  shadowing 
out,  in  dim  distance,  the  reconciliation  of  man  the  race  on  earthy 
but  not,  alas !  (as  Blake  seems  to  have  intended)  the  recon- 
ciliation of  man  the  entire  species  in  heaven.  The  great  problem 
of  this  world  is,  How  is  man  to  be  reconciled,  or  made  at  onej 
with  his  Maker?  He  appears,  as  David  describes  himself,  a 
"stranger  on  this  earth."  All  elements,  and  almost  all  beings, 
are  at  war  with  him.  He  has  nothing  friendly  at  first,  save  the 
warmth  of  his  mother's  breast.  Rain,  cold,  snow,  even  sunshine, 
beasts,  and  men,  seem  and  are  stern  and  harsh  to  his  infant 
feelings  and  frame.  As  he  advances,  his  companions,  his  school- 
masters, are,  or  appear  to  be,  renewed  forms  of  enmity.  "  What 
have  I  done  to  provoke  such  universal  alienation  ?"  is  often  his 
silent,  suppressed  feeling.  The  truths  of  art,  science,  nay,  of 
God's  word,  are  presented  as  if  contradicting  his  first  fresh  feel- 
ings. Books,  catechisms,  schools,  churches,  he  steals  into,  as  if 
they  were  strange  and  foreign  countries.  At  every  step,  he 
breathes  a  diflScult  air.     Sustained,  indeed,  by  the   buoyant 


92  POETRY    OF    THE    BOOK    OF   JOB. 

spirits  of  youth,  he  contrives  to  be  cheerful  amid  his  difficulties ; 
but  at  last  the  "  Death-in-life"  appears  in  his  path — the  dread- 
ful question  arises,  "  Must  there  not  be  something  in  me  to  pro- 
voke all  this  enmity  ?  Were  /  a  different  being,  would  to  me 
every  step  seem  a  stumble,  every  flower  a  weed,  every  brow  a 
frown,  every  path  an  inclosure,  every  bright  day  a  gaud,  every 
dark  day  a  faithful  reflector  of  misery,  every  hope  a  fear,  and 
every  fear  the  mask  for  some  unknown  and  direr  horror  ?  If 
it  is  not  the  universe,  but  I,  that  am  dark,  whence  comes  in  me 
the  shadow  which  so  beclouds  it  ?  Whence^  comes  it,  that  I  do 
not  partake  either  of  its  active  happiness,  or  of  its  passive  peace  ? 
And  seeing  that  the  universe  is  unreconciled  to  me,  and  I  to  the 
universe,  must  it  not  be  the  same  with  its  God,  and  who  or 
what  is  to  bridge  across  the  gulf  betwixt  him  and  me  ?  If  a 
finite  creation  repels  me,-  how  can  I  face  the  justice  of  an  infinite 
God  ?  If  time  present  me  with  little  else  than  difficulties,  what 
dangers  and  terrors  may  lurk  in  the  heights  and  depths  of  eter- 
nity ?  If  often  the  wicked  are  prosperous  and  contented  on 
earth,  and  the  good  afflicted,  tossed  with  tempest,  and  not  com- 
forted, may  not  similar  anomalies  abound  hereafter?  And  how 
am  I  to  be  convinced  that  a  system  so  strange  as  that  around 
me  is  wise — that  sufferings  are  salutary,  and  that  its  God  is 
good?  And  how,  above  all,  is  my  personal  unworthiness  to 
be  removed  ? 

Su  h  is  a  general  statement  of  the  common  difficulty.  In 
various  men  it  assumes  various  forms.  In  one  man,  a  gloomy 
temperament  so  poisons  all  the  avenues  of  his  being,  that  to  tell 
him  to  be  happy  and  to  worship,  sounds  at  first  as  absurd  as 
though  you  were  giving  the  same  counsel  to  one  burning  in  a 
conflagration.  Another  is  so  spell-bound  by  the  spectacle  of 
moral  evil,  that  he  is  able  to  do  or  say  little  else  than  ask  the 
question — "  Whence  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  shape  ?"  A 
third,  sincere  almost  to  lunacy,  is  driven  doubly  '*  mad  for  the 
sight  of  his  eyes  which  he  doth  see" — the  sight  of  a  world,  as 
hollow  in  heart  as  some  think  it  to  be  in  physical  structure.  A 
fourth  has  his  peace  strangled  by  doubts  as  to  the  peculiar  doc- 


POETRY    OF    THE    BOOK    OF   JOB.  93 

trines,  or  as  to  the  evidences  of  liis  faith — doubts  of  a  kind  which 
go  not  out  even  by  prayer  and  fasting.  And  a  fifth,  of  pure 
life  and  benevolent  disposition,  becomes  a  mere  target  for  the 
arrows  of  misfortune — at  once  a  prodigy  of  excellence  and  a 
proverb  of  woe. 

This  last  case  is  that  of  Job,  and,  perhaps,  of  those  now 
enumerated,  the  only  one  then  very  likely.  But  the  resolution 
of  the  difficulty  he  obtained  applies  to  all  the  others  unrecon- 
ciled— it  ought  to  satisfy  them.  How  was  Job  instructed  ?  By 
being  taught — first,  in  part  through  suflfering,  and,  secondly, 
through  a  manifestation  of  God's  superiority  to  him — a  child- 
like trust  in  God.  Even  amid  his  wailings  of  woe,  he  had  fal- 
teringly  expressed  this  feeling — "  Though  he  slay  me,  I  will 
trust  in  him."  Bat  when  he  saw  and  ielt  God's  greatness,  as 
expounded  by  himself,  he  reasoned  thus  :  One  so  great  must 
be  good — one  so  wise  must  mean  me  well  by  all  my  afflictions. 
I  will  distrust  and  doubt  him  no  more.  I  will  loathe  myself 
on  account  of  my  imperfect  and  unworthy  views  of  him.  I 
will  henceforth  confide  in  the  great  whole.  I  will  fearlessly 
commit  my  bark  to  the  eternal  ocean,  and,  come  fair  weather 
or  foul,  will  believe  that  the  wave  which  dashes,  or  the  wave 
which  drowns,  or  the  wave  which  wafts  to  safety,  is  equally 
good.  I  will  also  repent,  in  dust  and  ashes,  of  my  own  vile- 
ness,  and  trust  to  forgiveness  through  the  medium  of  the  Great 
Sacrifice,  which  the  smoke  of  ray  altar  feebly  symbolizes. 

Behold  in  this  the  outline  of  our  reconciliation.  The  Creator 
of  this  great  universe  must  be  good.  Books  of  evidences,  be- 
gone !  One  sunset,  one  moonhght  hour,  one  solemn  meditation 
of  the  night,  one  conversation  at  evening  with  a  kindred  heart,  is 
worth  you  all !  Such  scenes,  such  moments,  dissolve  the  most 
massive  doubts  easily  and  speedily  as  the  evening  air  sucks 
down  the  mimic  mountains  of  vapor  which  He  along  the  verge 
of  heaven.  The  sense  given  is  but  that,  indeed,  of  beauty  and 
power — transcendent  beauty,  and  power  illimitable ;  but  is 
there  not  insinuated  something  more — a  lesson  of  love  as  tran- 
scendent, and  of  peace  as  boundless  ?   Does  not  the  blue  sky 


04  POETRY    OF   THE    BOOK    OF   JOB. 

give  US  an  unutterable  sense  of  security  and  of  unioi  ',  (  ('j\h 
around  us,  like  the  curtain  of  a  tent  ?  Do  not  the  utars  dart 
down  glances  of  warm  intelligence  and  affection,  secret  and  real 
as  the  looks  of  lovers  ?  Do  not  tears,  torments,  evils,  and  death, 
seem  at  times  to  melt  and  disappear  in  that  gush  of  golden 
glory,  in  that  stream  of  starry  hope  which  the  milky-way 
pours  each  night  through  the  heavens  ?  Say  not  with  Carlyle, 
"  It  is  a  sad  sight."  Sad !  the  sight  of  beauty,  splendor, 
order,  motion,  progress,  power.  Godhead — how  can  it  be  sad  ? 
Man,  indeed,  must  at  present  weep  as  well  as  wonder,  as  he 
looks  above.  Be  it  so.  We  have  seen  a  child  weeping  bit- 
terly on  his  mother's  knee,  while  the  train  was  carrying  him 
triumphantly  on.  "Poor  child!"  we  thought,  "why  weepest 
thou  ?  Thy  mother's  arms  are  around  thee,  thy  mother's  eye  is 
jQxed  upon  thee,  and  that  bustle  and  rapidity,  so  strange  and 
dreadful  to  thee,  are  but  carrying  thee  faster  to  thy  home." 
Thus  man  wails  and  cries,  with  God  above,  God  around,  God 
below,  and  God  before  him.  Not  always  shall  he  thus  weep. 
But  other  elements  are  still  wanting  in  his  reconciliation.  It 
is  not  necessary  merely  that  power,  beautj^,  and  wisdom  lead  to 
the  conception  of  God's  goodness  and  love,  but  that  suffering, 
by  perfecting  patience,  by  teaching  knowledge,  should,  while 
humbling  man's  pride,  elevate  his  position,  and  put  into  his 
hands  the  most  powerful  of  all  telescopes — that  of  a  tear. 
"  Perfect  through  suffering"  must  man  become  ;  and,  then,  how 
do  all  apparent  enemies  soften  into  friends  !  how  drop  down  all 
disguises ;  and  misfortunes,  losses,  fevers,  falls,  deaths,  stand 
out  naked,  detected,  and  blushing  lovers. 

One  thing  more,  and  the  atonement  is  complete.  Man  has 
about  him  another  burden  besides  that  of  misery — it  is  a  bur- 
den of  sin.  To  this  he  can  not  be  reconciled.  This  must  be 
taken  away  ere  he  can  be  perfectly  at  one  with  the  universe  or 
its  Maker.  This,  by  the  great  sacrifice  at  Calvary,  and  the 
sanctifying  power  of  the  Spirit,  has  been  taken  away ;  and 
now,  whoever,  convinced  of  God's  benevolence  by  the  voice  of 
his  own  soul  echoing  the  language  of  the  creation — satisfied, 


POETRY    OF   THE    BOOK    OF   JOB.  95 

from  experience,  of  the  benefits  of  suflfering — is  also  forgiven, 
through  Christ,  his  iniquities,  stands  forth  to  view  the  recon- 
ciled man.  Be  he  of  dark  disposition,  his  gloom  is  now  tem- 
pered, if  not  removed ;  he  looks  at  it  as  the  pardoned  captive 
at  his  iron  bars  the  last  evening  of  his  imprisonment.  Be  he 
profoundly  fascinated  by  moral  evil,  even  with  its  dark  counte- 
nance, a  certain  morning  twilight  begins  to  mingle.  Has  he 
been  sick  of  the  hoilowness  of  the  world,  now  he  feels  that  that 
very  hoilowness  secures  its  exj^losion — it  must  give  place  to  a 
truer  system.  Has  he  entertained  doubts — he  drowns  them  in 
atoning  blood.  Has  he  suffered — his  sufferings  have  left  on  the 
soil  of  his  mind  a  rich  deposit,  whence  are  ready  to  spring  the 
blossoms  of  Eden,  and  to  shine  the  colors  of  heaven.  Thus 
reconciled,  how  high  his  attitude,  how  dignified  his  bearing ! 
He  knows  not  what  it  is  to  fear.  Having  become  the  friend  of 
God,  he  can  look  above  and  around  him  with  the  eye  of  univer- 
sal friendship.  In  the  blue  sky  he  dwells,  as  in  a  warm  nest. 
The  clouds  and  mountains  seem  ranged  around  him,  like  the 
chariots  and  horses  of  fire  about  the  ancient  prophet.  The 
roar  of  wickedness  itself,  from  the  twilight  city,  is  attuned  into 
a  melody,  the  hoarse  beginning  of  a  future  anthem.  Flowers 
bloom  on  every  dunghill — light  gushes  from  every  gloom — 
the  grave  itself  smiles  up  in  his  face — and  his  own  frame,  even 
if  decaying,  is  the  loosened  and  trembling  leash  which,  when 
broken,  shall  let  his  spirit  spring  forth,  free  and  exulting,  amid 
the  liberties,  the  hght,  the  splendors,  and  the  "  powers  of  the 
world  to  come."  * 

*  The  author  means,  if  God  spare  him,  to  develop  further  his  views 
of  the  reconciliation  of  man,  in  another,  and  probably  a  fictitious  form. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

POETRY  OF  THE   HISTORICAL  BOOKS. 

The  entire  history  of  Israel  is  poetical  and  romantic.  Besides 
the  leading  and  wide  events  we  have  already  indicated,  as  nour- 
ishing the  spirit  of  Hebrew  poetry — such  as  the  creation,  the 
flood,  the  scene  at  Sinai — there  were  numerous  minor  sources  of 
poetic  influence.  The  death  of  Moses  in  the  sight  of  the  promised 
land  ;  the  crossing  of  the  river  Jordan  ;  the  wars  of  Canaan  ;  the 
romantic  feats  of  Samson  ;  the  immolation  of  Jophtha's  daughter, 
the  Iphigenia  of  Israel ;  the  story  of  Ruth,  "standing  amid  the 
alien  corn,"  with  all  its  simplicity  and  pathos  ;  the  rise  of  David, 
harp  in  hand,  from  "  the  ewes  with  young,"  to  the  throne  of  his 
country ;  his  adventurous,  checkered,  and  most  poetical  his- 
tory ;  the  erection  of  the  temple,  that  fair  poem  of  God's ;  the 
separation  of  the  tribes  ;  the  history  and  ascent  of  Elijah  ;  the 
calling  of  Elisha  from  the  plow ;  the  downfall  of  the  temple  ; 
the  captivity  of  Babylon ;  the  return  from  it ;  the  rise  of  the 
new  temple,  amid  the  tears  of  the  old  men,  who  had  seen  the 
glories  of  the  former — these,  and  many  others,  were  events 
which,  touching  again  and  again,  at  short  and  frequent  inter- 
vals, the  rock  of  the  Hebrew  heart,  brought  out  another  and 
another  gush  of  poetry. 

We  speak  not  now  of  David's  Psalms,  or  those  which  fol- 
lowed his  time,  but  of  those  songs  which  are  sprinkled  through 
the  historical  works  of  Joshua,  Judges,  and  Samuel  (inclusive 
of  one  or  two  of  David's  strains),  and  which  shine  as  sparkles 
struck  off  from  the  rolling  wheel  of  Jewish  story.     It  is  beau- 


POETRY    OF   THE    HISTORICAL    BOOKS.  97 

tiful  to  see  history  thus  flowering  into  poetry — the  heroic  deed 
living  in  the  heroic  la)^ — the  glory  of  the  field,  separated  from 
its  gore,  purified,  and,  like  the  ever-burning  fire  of  the  temple, 
set  before  the  Lord  of  Hosts.  What  Macaulay's "  Lays  of 
Ancient  Rome"  have  done  for  the  fabulous  legends  and  half- 
true  traditions  of  ancient  story,  have  Jasher,  Iddo,  Deborah,  and 
David,  in  a  higher  and  holier  manner,  done  for  the  real  battles 
and  miracles  which  stud  the  annals  of  God's  chosen  people. 

Need  we  refer  to  the  grand  myth — if  such  it  be — of  the 
standing  still  of  the  sun  over  Gibeon,  and  of  the  moon  over  the 
valley  of  Ajalon.  Supposing  this  literally  true,  v.hat  a  picture 
of  the  power  of  mind  over  matter — of  inspired  mind  over  pas- 
sive matter!  The  one  word  of  the  believing  roan  has  arrested 
the  course  of  nature.  His  stern  commanding  eye  has  enlisted 
the  very  sun  into  his  service,  and  the  moon  seems  a  device  upon 
his  banner.  It  is  a  striking  verification  of  the  words,  "  All 
things  are  possible  to  him  that  believeth."  That  matter  which 
yields  reluctantly  to  the  generalizations  of  science,  is  plastic,  as 
soft  clay,  in  the  hands  of  faith.  Suns  and  systems  dance  to  the 
music  of  the  throbs  from  a  great  heart.  Should  we,  on  the 
contrary,  suppose  this  a  poetical  parable,  and  thus  rid  ourselves 
of  the  physical  difficulties,  how  grandly  does  it  express  modern 
experiences !  Has  not  man,  through  astronomy,  made  the 
sun  stand  still,  and  the  earth  revolve  ?  Did  not  the  genius  of 
Napoleon  arrest  the  sun  of  Austerlitz,  for  many  a  summer, 
over  his  fields  of  slain  ?  Is  not  each  extension  of  the  power  of 
the  telescope,  causing  firmaments  to  yield,  to  recede,  to  draw 
near,  to  dissolve,  to  curdle,  to  stand,  to  move,  to  assume  ten 
thousand  various  forms,  colors,  and  dimensions  ?  Is  not  man 
each  year  feeling  himself  more  at  home  in  his  house,  more  at 
hberty  to  range  through  its  remoter  apartments,  with  more 
command  over  its  elements,  and  with  a  growing  consciousness, 
that  his  empire  shall  yet  be  complete  ?  Joshua  commanding 
the  sun  and  the  moon,  is  but  an  emblem  of  the  man  of  the 
future,  turning  and  winding  the  universe,  like  a  "fiery  Pega- 
sus," below  him,  on  his  upward  and  forward  career. 

E 


98  POETRY    OF    THE    HISTORICAL  BOOKS. 

Deborali — what  a  strong  solitary  ray  of  light  strikes  from  her 
story  and  song,  upon  the  peaks  of  the  past !  A  mother  in 
Israel,  the  wise  woman  of  her  neighborhood,  curing  diseases, 
deciding  differences,  perhaps,  at  times,  conducting  the  devotions 
of  her  people — how  little  was  she,  or  were  they,  aware  of  the 
depth  which  lay  in  her  heart  and  in  her  genius.  It  required 
but  one  action  and  one  strain  to  cover  her  with  glory.  In  her, 
as  in  all  true  women,  lay  a  quiet  fmid  of  strength,  virtue,  and 
courage,  totally  unsuspected  by  herself.  While  others  won- 
dered at  her  sudden  patriotism  and  poetry,  she  wondered  more 
than  they.  The  Great  Spirit,  seeking  for  a  vent  through  which 
to  pour  a  flood  of  ruin  upon  the  invaders  of  Israel,  found  this 
woman  sitting  under  her  palm-tree,  on  the  mountain  side,  and  she 
started  up  at  his  bidding.  "  I,  Deborah,  arose."  The  calm 
matron  becomes  the  Nemesis  of  her  race,  the  mantle  of  Miriam 
falls  on  her  shoulders,  and  the  sword  of  Joshua  flames  from  her 
hand.  This  prophetic  fury  sinks  not,  till  the  enemy  of  her  coun- 
try is  crushed,  and  till  she  has  told  the  tidings  to  earth,  to 
heaven,  and  to  all  after-time.  And  then,  like  a  sword  dropped 
from  a  hero's  side,  she  quietly  ftiUs  back  into  her  peaceful  soli- 
tude again.  It  is  Cincinnatus  resuming  his  plow-handle  in 
mid-furrow.  How  wonderful  are  those  gusts  which  surprise  and 
uplift  men,  and  women  too,  into  greatness — a  greatness  befora 
unknown,  and  terrible  even  to  themselves. 

In  her  song  the  poetry  of  war  comes  to  its  culmination.  Not 
the  hoofs  of  many  horses,  running  to  battle,  produce  such  a 
martial  music,  as  do  her  prancing  words.  How  she  rolls  the 
fine  vesture  of  her  song  in  blood  !  How  she  dares  to  hken  her 
doings  to  the  thunder-shod  steps  of  the  God  of  Sinai !  The 
Bong  begins  with  God,  and  with  God  it  ends.  One  glance — 
no  more — is  given  to  the  desolations  which  preceded  her  rising. 
Praises,  like  sunbeams,  are  made  to  fall  on  the  crests  of  those 
who  periled  themselves  with  her,  in  the  high  places  of  the 
field.  Questions  of  forked  lightning  are  flung  at  the  recreant 
tribes.  "  Why  did  Dan  abide  in  ships  ?"  Ah  !  Dan  was  a  ser- 
pent in  the  way,  biting  the  horse-heels,  and  causing  the  rider 


POETRY    OF   THE    HISTORICAL   BOOKS.  99 

to  fall  backward  ;  but  here  be  is  stung  and  stumbled  himself ! 
Over  one  village,  Meroz,  she  pauses  to  pour  the  concentra- 
tion of  her  ire,  and  the  "  curse  causeless  doth  not  come."  For 
the  brave,  the  light  of  Goshen ;  for  the  recreants,  the  night  of 
Egypt ;  but  for  the  neutral,  the  gloom  of  Gehenna  !  "  All 
power,"  then,  "  is  given  her,"  to  paint  the  battle  itself ;  and  it, 
and  all  its  scenery,  from  the  stars  above  fighting  against  Sisera, 
to  the  river  Kishon  below,  that  "  ancient  river,"  rolling  away  in 
indignation  the  last  relics  of  the  enemy,  appear  before  us.  Then 
her  imagination  pursues  the  solitary  Sisera,  unhelmed,  pale,  and 
panting,  to  the  tent  of  Heber,  and  with  a  yet  firmer  nerve,  and 
a  yet  holier  hypocrisy,  she  re-enacts  the  part  of  Jael,  and  slays 
again  her  slain.  And  then,  half  in  triumph,  and  half  in  the  ten- 
derness which  often  mingles  with  it,  she  sees  the  mother  of  Sisera 
looking  out  at  her  window,  with  the  flush  of  hope  on  her  cheek 
fading  into  the  deathlike  paleness  of  a  mother's  disappointment 
and  a  mother's  anguish  ;  and  then — for  Deborah,  too,  is  a 
"  mother  in  Israel" — she  can  no  more,  she  shuts  the  scene,  she 
drops  the  lattice,  and  her  voice  fiilters,  though  her  faith  is  firm, 
as  she  exclaims,  "So  let  all  thine  enemies  perish,  O  Lord; 
but  let  them  that  love  him  be  as  the  sun,  when  he  goeth  forth 
in  his  might." 

It  is  a  baptized  sword  which  Deborah  bears.  It  is  a  battle 
of  the  Lord  which  she  fights.  It  is  a  defensive  warfare  that  her 
song  hallows.  "Carnage,"  says  Wordsworth,  "is  God's 
daughter."  We  reverenced  and  loved  the  Poet  of  the  Lakes, 
whose  genius  was  an  honor  to  his  species,  and  whose  hfe  was 
an  honor  to  his  genius  ;  but  seldom  has  a  poet  written  words 
more  mischievous,  untrue,  and  (unintentionally)  blasphemous, 
than  these.  We  all  remember  Byron's  inference  from  it,  "  If 
Carnage  be  God's  daughter,  she  must  be  Christ's  sister."  Blas- 
phemous !  but  the  blasphemy  is  Wordsworth's,  not  Byron's. 
Here  the  skeptic  becomes  the  Christian,  and  the  Christian  the 
blasphemer.  If  Carnage  be  God's  daughter,  so  must  evil  and 
sin  be.  Xo,  blessed  be  the  name  of  our  God  !  He  does  not 
smile  above  the  ruin  of  smoking  towns ;  he  does  not  snufF  up 


100         POETRY  OF  THE  HISTORICAL  BOOKS.  ■ 

the  blood  of  a  Borodino,  or  a  Waterloo,  as  a  dark  incense;  he 
does  not  say,  over  a  shell-split  fortress,  or  over  the  dying  decks 
of  a  hundred  dismasted  vessels,  driftins:  down  the  tremblins* 
water  on  the  eve  of  a  day  of  carnage,  "  It  is  very  good  ;"  he  is 
the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  his  reign,  when  universal,  shall  be  the 
reign  of  universal  brotherhood.  And  yet,  we  will  grant  to 
Carnage  a  ro]/al  origin :  she  is,  if  not  the  daughter  of  our  God, 
yet  of  a  god,  of  the  ffod  of  this  world.  But  shame  to  those  who 
would  lay  down  the  bloody  burden  at  the  door  of  the  house  of 
the  God  of  Mercy — a  door  which  has  opened  to  many  an  orphan 
and  many  a  foundling,  but  which  will  not  admit  this  forlorn 
child  of  hell. 

Never  did  genius  more  degrade  herself  than  when  gilding  the 
fields  and  consecrating  the  banners  of  unjust  or  equivocal  war. 
Here,  the  gift  of  Scott  himself  resembles  an  eagle's  feather,  trans- 
ferred from  the  free  vnng  of  the  royal  bird  to  the  cap  of  some 
brutal  chieftain.  The  sun  and  the  stars  must  lend  their  light 
to  the  worst  atrocities  of  the  battle-field,  but  surely  genius  is 
not  bound  by  the  same  compulsion.  De  Quincey  has  lately 
predicted  the  immortality  of  war :  we  answer  him  in  the  lan- 
guage of  a  book,  the  authority  of  which  he  acknowledges, 
Neither  shall  they  learn  ivar  any  more. 

Between  the  time  of  Deborah  and  David,  w^e  find  little  express 
poetry.  One  fable  there  is,  that  of  Jotham — "the  Trees  choos- 
ing a  king" — besides  the  all-beautiful  book  of  Ruth. 

The  first  fable,  as  the  first  disguise  assumed  by  Truth,  must 
be  interesting.  Since  Jotham  uttered  the  fierce  moral  of  his 
parable,  and  fled  for  his  fife,  in  what  a  number  of  shapes  has 
Truth  sought  for  refuge,  safety,  decoration,  point,  or  j^ower ! 
Hid  by  him  in  trees,  she  has  afterward  lurked  in  flowers,  spoken 
in  animals,  surged  in  waves,  soared  in  clouds,  burned  over  the 
nations  in  suns  and  stars,  ventriloquized  from  mines  below  and 
from  mountains  above,  created  other  worlds  for  her  escape,  and, 
when  hunted  back  to  the  family  of  mankind,  has  made  a  thou- 
sand new  variations  of  the  human  species,  as  disguises  for  her 
shy  and  tremulous  self!     Whence  this  strange  evasiveness  ?     It 


POETRY    OF    THE    H/.S1>0^I0AI.    IjClOK^  lOl 

is  partly  because  Truth,  like  all  her  true  friend?,  loves  to  un- 
bend and  disport  herself  at  times  ;  because  Truth  herself  is  but 
a  child,  and  has  not  yet  put  away  all  childish  things  ;  because 
Truth  is  a  beauty,  and  loves,  as^  the  beautiful  do,  to  look  at 
and  show  herself  in  a  multitude  of  mirrors ;  because  Truth  is 
a  lover  of  nature,  and  of  all  lovely  things  ;  because  Truth,  who 
can  only  stammer  in  the  language  of  abstractions,  can  speak  in 
the  language  of  forms  ;  because  Truth  is  a  fugitive,  and  in  dan- 
ger, and  must  hide  in  many  a  bosky  borne  and  many  a  shady 
arbor;  because  Truth,  in  her  turn,  is  dangerous,  and  must  not 
show  herself  entire,  else  the  first  look  were  the  last ;  and  be- 
cause Truth  would  beckon  us  on,  by  her  very  bashfulness,  to 
follow  after  her,  to  her  own  land,  where  she  may  still  continue 
to  hide  ia  heaven,  as  she  has  hid  in  earth — but  amid  forests,  and 
behind  shades  of  scenery  so  colossal,  that  it  hath  not  entered 
into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive  thereof 

And  seldom  (to  look  a  little  back  in  the  narrative)  did  Truth 
assume  a  quainter  disguise,  than  when  she  spoke  from  the  lips 
of  Balaam,  the  son  of  Beor.  Inclined  as  we  are,  with  Herder, 
to  assign  to  his  prophecies  a  somewhat  later  date  than  is  usually 
supposed,  we  do  not  for  that  reason  deny  their  authenticity  or 
genuineness.  They  bring  before  us  the  image  of  the  first  god- 
less poet — the  first  who  "  profaned  the  God-given  strength,  and 
marred  the  •  lofty  line."  Having  been,  perhaps,  at  first  a  true 
prophet,  and  a  genius,  he  had  become  a  soothsayer,  but  was 
surprised  and  forced  into  a  true  prophet  again.  His  words 
come  forth  from  his  lips,  like  honey  from  the  carcass  of  the  lion 
— "  meat  fi'om  the  eater."  We  figure  him  always  with  gray  hair 
and  a  Danton  visage  ;  the  brow  lofty  and  broad  ;  the  eye  small, 
leering,  fierce  ;  the  lips  large  and  protruding.  Poetry  has  often 
lighted  on  a  point  so  tempting  as  that  rock-like  brow  ;  licen- 
tiousness has  blanched  his  hair,  and  many  sins  and  abominations 
are  expressed  in  his  lower  face.  But  look  how  the  Spirit  of  the 
Lord  now  covers  him  with  an  unusual  and  mighty  afflatus — how 
he  struggles  against  it  as  against  a  shirt  of  poison,  but  in  vain 
—how  his  eye  at  length  steadies  sullenly  into  vision — and  how 


16^  POET#-Y    bF    tHE' HISTORICAL   BOOKS, 

his  lips,  after  writhing,  as  though  scorched,  open  their  wide  and 
slow  portals  to  utter  the  blessing.  He  feels  himself — eye,  brow, 
soul,  all  but  heart — caught  in  the  power  of  a  mighty  one  ;  and 
he  must  speak  or  burn  !  As  it  is,  the  blessing  blisters  his 
tongue,  like  a  curse,  and  he  has  found  only  its  utterance  a 
milder  misery. 

Beautiful,  notwithstanding  Balaam,  is  the  scene  in  Numbers. 
It  is  the  top  of  Pisgah,  where  the  feet  of  Moses  are  soon  to 
stand  in  death.  But  now  seven  altars  are  sending  up  the 
crackling  smoke  of  their  burnt-offerings — the  fat  of  bullocks 
and  rams  has  been  transmuted  into  a  rich  and  far-seen  flame — 
Balak  and  the  Princes  of  Moab  surround  the  sacrifices,  and  gaze 
anxiously  upon  the  troubled  face  of  the  seer ;  while  around 
stand  up,  grim  and  silent,  as  if  waiting  the  result.  Mounts 
Nebo  and  Peor ;  behind  stretches  the  Land  of  Promise,  from 
the  Dead  Sea  to  the  Lebanon ;  and  before  are  the  white  tents, 
the  Tabernacle,  and  the  bright  cloud,  suspended,  vail-hke  and 
vast,  over  the  camp  of  Israel.  "  'Twere  worth  ten  years  of 
peaceful  life  one  glance  of  that  array."  The  soul  of  Balaam, 
the  poet,  rises  to  his  lips,  but  would  linger  long  there,  or  come 
forth  only  in  the  fury  of  curse,  did  not  the  whisper  of  God  at 
the  same  moment  touch  his  spirit ;  and  how  his  genius  springs 
to  that  spur.  To  his  excited  imagination,  the  bright  finger  of 
the  cloud  over  the  camp  seems  the  horn  of  a  "  unicorn  ;"  the 
camp  itself,  couching  in  the  valley,  is  a  "  great  lion,"  waiting 
to  rear  himself,  to  drink  the  blood  of  the  slain ;  no  "  divination" 
can  move  that  finger  pointing  to  Canaan  and  to  Moab  ;  no  "  en- 
chantment" can  chain  that  "  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah."  It  is 
over — he  drops  his  rod  of  imprecation,  and  to  the  crest-fallen 
Princes  exclaims — "  God  hath  blessed,  and  I  can  not  reverse  it^ 

From  point  to  point  he  is  taken,  but,  even  as  his  ass  was 
waylaid  at  every  step  by  the  angel,  so  is  his  evil  genius  met 
and  rebuked  under  a  better  spirit,  till  each  mount  in  all  that 
high  range  becomes  a  separate  source  of  blessing  to  the  "  people 
dwelling  alone,  and  not  reckoned  among  the  nations."  Trem- 
bling in  the  memory  and  the  remaining  force  of  the  vision,  the 


POETRY    OF   THE  HISTORICAL   BOOKS.  103 

prophet  at  lerigtli  pursues  eastward  his  solitary  journey,  and, 
trembling  in  the  terror  of  Israel,  Balak  also  goes  his  way. 

Genius  has  indeed  a  hard  task  to  perform  when  she  turns,  or 
seeks  to  turn,  against  God.  In  proportion  to  the  resemblance 
she  bears  him,  is  the  misery  of  the  rebellion.  It  is  not  the  clay 
rising  against  the  potter — it  is  the  sunbeam  against  the  sun. 
But  here,  too,  we  find  righteous  compensation.  Sometimes 
the  parricidal  power  is  palsied  in  the  blow.  Thus,  Paine 
found  the  strong  right  hand,  which  in  the  "  Rights  of  Man"  had 
coped  with  Burke,  shivered,  when,  in  the  "  Age  of  Reason,"  it 
touched  the  ark  of  the  Lord.  Sometimes,  with  the  blasphemy 
of  the  strain,  there  is  blended  a  wild  beauty,  or  else  a  mournful 
discontent,  which  serves  to  carry  off  or  to  neutralize  the  evil 
effect.  Shelley,  for  instance,  has  made  few  converts:  a  sys- 
tem which  kept  him  so  miserable  can  not  make  others  happy 
or  hopeful — and  you  cry  besides,  that  very  beauty  and  love 
of  which  he  raves  are  vague  abstractions,  till  condensed  into 
a/orm.  Others,  again,  lapped  generally  in  the  enjoyment  or 
dream  of  a  sensual  paradise,  which  is  often  disturbed  by  the 
feeling  or  the  fear  of  a  sensuous  hell,  sometimes  through  their 
dream  chant  fragments  of  psalms,  snatches  of  holy  melodies 
learned  in  cWdhood  ;  or,  awakening  outright,  feel  a  power  over 
them  compelling  them  to  utter  the  truth  of  heaven  in  strains 
which  had  too  often  finned  by  turn  every  evil  passion  of  earth ; 
and,  behold,  a  Burns  and  Byron,  as  well  as  a  Saul  and  a 
Balaam,  are  among  the  2>rophets.  Does  their  genius  thus  ex- 
ercised seem  strange  as  a  parable  in  the  mouth  of  fools  ?  How 
stranger  far  to  superior  beings  must  be  the  spectacle  of  any 
species  of  genius  revolting  against  its  own  higher  nature  in  re- 
volting against  its  God ! 

Let  then  Balaam,  the  son  of  Beor,  pass  on  toward  the  moun- 
tains of  the  East.  We  follow  him  with  mingled  emotions  of 
disgust  and  admiration,  fear  and  pity — pity,  for  the  sword  is 
already  trembling  over  his  head  ;  he  who  conspired  not  with 
Moab  shall  soon  conspire  with  Midian,  and  shall  perish  in  the 
attempt.     It  is  but  one  lucid  peak  in  his  history  that  we  see — 


104  POETRY    OF   THE    HISTORICAL   BOOKS. 

all  behind  and  before  is  darkness;  nor  can  we  expect  for  liim 
even  the  tremendous  blessing — "  Therefore  eternal  silence  he  his 
doomr 

In  the  First  Book  of  Samuel,  we  find  at  least  three  specimens 
of  distinct  poetry — the  ode  or  thanksgiving,  the  satire,  and  the 
ghost  scene.  The  first  is  the  song  of  H^mah.  This  is  in- 
teresting, principally,  as  the  finest  utterance  of  the  general  desire 
for  children  which  existed  in  Jewish  females,  and  which  exists 
in  females  still.  Vv^e  deduce  from  this  not  merely  the  inference 
that  the  Jews  expected  a  Messiah,  but  also  that  there  is  in 
human  hearts  a  yearning  after  a  nobler  shape  of  humanity,  and 
that  this  yearning  is  itself  a  proof  of  its  prophecy,  and  of  the 
permanence  and  progressive  advancement  of  that  race  which, 
notwithstanding  ages  of  anguish  and  disappointment,  con- 
tinues to  thirst  for  and  to  expect  its  own  apotheosis. 

And  are  not  all  after- satire  and  invective  against  monarchy 
and  kings  condensed  in  Samuel's  picture  of  the  approaching 
"  King  Stork"  of  Israel  ?  We  quote  it  entire  : — "  And  this  will 
be  the  manner  of  the  king  that  shall  reign  over  you :  He  will 
take  your  sons,  and  appoint  them  for  himself,  for  his  chariots, 
and  to  be  his  horsemen  ;  and  some  shall  run  before  his  chariots. 
And  he  will  appoint  him  captains  over  thousands,4lnd  captains 
over  fifties ;  and  will  set  them  to  ear  his  ground,  and  to  reap 
his  harvest,  and  to  make  his  instruments  of  war,  and  instru- 
ments of  his  chariots.  And  he  will  take  your  daughters  to  be 
confectioneries,  and  to  be  cooks,  and  to  be  bakers.  And  he 
will  take  your  fields,  and  your  vineyards,  and  your  olive-yards, 
even  the  best  of  them,  and  give  them  to  his  servants.  And  he 
will  take  the  tenth  of  your  seed,  and  of  your  vineyards,  and 
give  to  his  officers,  and  to  his  servants.  And  he  will  take  your 
men-servants,  and  your  maid-servants,  and  your  goodliest  young 
men,  and  your  asses,  and  put  them  to  his  work.  He  will  take 
the  tenth  of  your  sheep ;  and  ye  shall  be  his  servants.  And 
ye  shall  cry  out  in  that  day  because  of  your  king  which  ye 
shall  have  chosen  you ;  and  the  Lord  will  not  hear  you  in  that 
day."     What  a  quiet,  refreshing  vein  of  sarcasm  enlivens  the 


POETRY  OF  THE  HISTORICAL  BOOKS.         103 

stern  truth  of  this  passage.  Sheep  and  asses  are  the  last  and 
least  viclims  to  the  royal  vulture — men  and  women  are  his 
favorite  quarry. 

Ere  coming  to  the  Cave  of  Endor,  we  must  glance  at  the 
actors  in  the  celebrated  scene. 

The  first  is  Samuel,  who  had  been  brought  up  in  Hannah's 
hand  to  the  Temple  service — who  had,  with  his  curling  locks 
and  "  little  coat,"  eagerly  officiated  as  a  young  priest  there — 
who  had  been  awakened  at  midnight  by  the  voice  of  God — 
through  whose  little  throat  came  accents  of  divine  wrath  which 
stunned  Eh's  heart,  and  made  the  flesh-hooks  of  his  sons  trem.- 
ble  amid  their  sacrilege — who  stood  behind  the  smoke  of  the 
sacrifice  of  a  sucking  lamb,  with  his  hands  uplifted  to  heaven, 
while  behind  were  his  cowering  countrymen  ;  before,  the  army 
of  the  Philistines ;  and  above,  a  blue  sky,  which  gradually 
darkened  into  tempest,  thunder,  dismay,  and  destruction  to  the 
invaders — who  anointed  Saul — who  hewed  Agag  in  pieces — 
who  entered  amazed  Bethlehem  like  a  God,  and,  neglecting  the 
tall  sons  of  Jesse,  chose  David,  the  fair-haired  and  blooming- 
child  of  o-enius — who  ao-ain,  at  Gilo-al,  summoned  the  liojht- 
nings,  which  said  to  him,  "  Here  we  are" — and  who,  at  last, 
was  buried  in  Ramah,  his  own  city,  with  but  one  mourner — all 
Israel,  which  "  rose  and  buried  him."  Son  of  the  barren 
woman,  consecrated  to  God  from  thy  birth,  "king  of  kings," 
lord  of  thunders,  how  can  even  the  strong  grave  secure  thee  ? 
Nay,  ere  it  fully  can,  thou  must  look  up  from  below  once  mora 
to  perform  another  act  of  king-quelling  power. 

The  second  actor  in  the  scene  is  Saul,  whose  character  is 
more  complex  in  its  elements.  Indolent,  yet  capable  of  great 
exertion ;  selfish,  yet  with  sparks  of  generosity  ;  fitful  in  tem- 
per, vindictive  in  disposition,  confusedly  brave,  irregularly  lib- 
eral, melancholy — mad,  Avithout  genius,  possessed  of  strong 
attachments,  stronger  hatreds  and  jealousies,' neither  a  tyrant 
nor  a  good  prince,  neither  thoroughly  bad  nor  good,  whom  you 
neither  can  "  bless  nor  ban,"  he  is  one  of  the  nondescripts  of 
history.     He  reminds  us  most  of  the  gloomy  tyrant  of  Scotland 

E* 


106  POETRT    OF   THE   HISTORICAL  BOOKS. 

— Macbeth.  Like  him,  he  has  risen  from  a  lower  station ;  like 
him,  he  has  cemented  his  tottering  throne  by  blood ;  hke  him, 
he  is  possessed  by  an  evil  spirit,  though,  in  Saul's  case,  it  does 
not  take  the  form  of  a  wife-fiend ;  hke  him,  too,  he  is  desper- 
ate— the  Philistines  are  upon  him — David  is  at  a  distance- 
Samuel  sleeps  in  Ramah — God  has  refused  to  answer  him  by 
prophets,  or  Urim,  or  dreams  ;  and  he  must  now,  like  Macbeth 
in  his  extremity,  go  and  knock  at  the  door  of  hell. 

The  third  actor  is  the  witch  of  Endor.  A  borderer  between 
earth  and  hell,  her  qualities  are  rather  those  of  the  former  than 
of  the  latter.  She  has  little  weird  or  haggard  grandeur.  So 
far  as  we  can  apprehend  her,  she  was  a  vulgar  conjurer,  herself 
taken  by  surprise,  and  caught  in  her  own  snare.  She  owns  (if 
we  may  compare  a  fictitious  with  a  real  person)  little  kindred 
to  the  witches  of  "  Macbeth,"  with  their  faces  faded  and  their 
raiment  withered  in  the  infernal  fire ;  their  supernatural  age 
and  ugliness ;  the  wild  mirth  which  mingles  with  their  malice ; 
the  light,  dancing  measure  to  which  their  strains  are  set,  and 
which  adds  greatly  to  their  horror,  as  though  a  sentence  of 
death  were  given  forth  in  doggerel ;  the  odd  gusto  with  which 
they  handle  and  enumerate  all  unclean  and  abominable  things  ; 
the  strange  sympathy  with  which  they  may  almost  be  said  to 
fancy  their  victims  ;  their  dream-like  conveyance  ;  the  new  and 
complete  mythology  with  which  they  are  allied ;  and  the  uncer- 
tainty in  which  you  are  left  as  to  their  nature,  origin,  and  his- 
torj' ; — nor  to  those  of  Scott  and  Burns,  who  are  just  malicious 
old  Scotch  hags,  corrupted  into  witches. 

Such  are  the  actors.  How  striking  the  scene  !  We  must 
figure  for  ourselves  the  Avitch's  place  of  abode.  The  shadows 
of  night  are  resting  on  Mount  Tabor.  Four  miles  south  of  it,  lies, 
near  Endor,  a  ravine  deep  sunk  and  wooded.  It  is  a  dreary  and 
deserted  spot,  hedged  round  by  a  circle  of  evil  rumors,  through 
which  nothing  but  despair  dare  penetrate.  But  there  a  torrent 
wails  to  the  moon,  and  the  moon  smiles  lovingly  to  the  torrent ; 
and  thick  jungle,  starred  at  times  by  the  eyes  of  fierce  animals, 
conceals  this  wild  amour  ;  and  there  stands  the  hut  of  the  hag, 


POETRY    OF   THE    HISTORICAL    BOOKS.  lOV 

near  which  you  descry  a  shed  for  cattle,  which  have  been,  or 
have  been  bought  by,  the  wages  of  her  imposture.  A  knock 
is  heard  at  her  door  ;  and,  starting  instantly  from  the  thin  sleep 
of  guilt,  she  opens  it,  after  arousing  her  accomplices.  Three 
men,  disguised,  but  not  so  deeply  as  to  disguise  from  her  ex- 
perienced eye  the  features  of  lurid  fear  and  ferocity,  ask  to  be, 
and  are,  admitted.  One,  taller,  by  the  head  and  shoulders,  than 
the  rest,  opens,  in  gloomy  tones,  the  gloomy  interview,  and  asks 
her  to  bring  up  whom  he  should  name.  Not  suspecting  this 
to  be  Saul — and  yet,  to  whom  else  could  belong  that  towering 
stature,  that  martial  form,  and  the  high  yet  hurried  accents  of 
that  king-like  misery  ? — she  reminds  him  that  Saul  had  cut  off 
all  that  had  familiar  spirits  from  the  land,  and  that  this  might 
be  a  snare  set  for  her  life.  Stung,  it  may  be,  at  this  allusion 
to  one  of  his  few  good  deeds,  in  hot  and  hasty  terms,  he  sw^ears 
to  secure  her  safety.  The  woman,  satisfied,  asks  whom  she  is 
to  invoke,  trusting,  probably,  to  sleight-of-hand,  on  her  part  or 
her  accomplices',  to  deceive  the  stranger.  He  cries  aloud  for 
Samuel — the  once  hated,  the  now  greatly  desired,  even  in  his 
shroud — and  while  he  is  yet  speaking,  his  prayer  is  answered. 
Samuel,  upraising  himself  through  the  ground,  is  seen  by  the 
woman.  Horrified  at  the  unexpected  sight,  and  discovering,  at 
the  same  moment,  the  identity  of  Saul,  she  bursts  into  wild 
shrieks — "  Thou  art  Saul !"  Slowly  shaping  into  distinct 
form,  and  curdling  into  prophetic  costume,  from  the  first 
vague  and  indefinite  shade,  appears  an  "  old  man  covered  with 
a  mantle."  It  is  "Samuel  even  himself."  The  grave  has 
yielded  to  the  whisper  of  Omnipotence,  and  to  the  cry  of  de- 
spair. Fixing  his  eye  upon  the  cowering  and  bending  Saul, 
he  asks  the  reason  of  this  summons.  Saul  owns  his  extremity  ; 
and  then  the  ghost,  slow  disappearing,  as  he  had  slowly  risen, 
seems  to  melt  down  into  those  awful  accents,  which  fall  upon 
Saul's  ear  as  "  blood  mingled  with  fire,"  and  which  leave  him 
a  mere  molten  residuum  of  their  power  upon  the  ground — 
"  To-morrow  shalt  thou  and  thy  sons  be  with  me" — shadows 
in  a  world  where  the  "  light  is  as  darkness."     "  Then  fell  Saul 


108  POETRY    OF    THE    HISTORICAL    BOOKS. 

along  the  eartli" — a  giant  chilled  and  prostrated  by  a  vapor. 
And  how  similar  the  comfort  offered  through  the  witch  of  Endor 
to  the  fallen  monarch  of  Israel  to  the  dance  of  Macbeth's  in- 
fernal comforters  ?     Shakspeare  must  have  had  Endor  in  his  eye  : 

**  Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprigbts, 
And  show  the  best  of  our  delights  ; 
I'll  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound, 
While  you  perform  your  antique  round ; 
That  this  great  king  may  kindly  say, 
Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay." 

To  this  dance,  performed  to  cheer  the  cheerless,  we  may  liken 
the  calf,  killed  in  haste,  and  in  haste  eaten,  by  one  who  shall 
never  partake  another  meal.  But  here  Macbeth  rises  above  his 
prototype.  He  drinks  the  "  wildflower  wine"  of  destiny — goes 
forth  enlarged  by  the  draught — and  at  last  dies  in  broad  battle, 
■with  bis  harness  on  his  back ;  Avhereas,  Saul  perishes  on  the 
morrow,  by  his  own  hand. 

And  who  was  his  chief  mourner?  Who  sung  his  threnody 
— a  threnody  the  noblest  ever  pung  by  poet  over  king  ?  It 
was  a  laureate  whom  his  death  had  elected  to  the  office — it  was 
David.  His  "  Song  of  the  Bow" — which  he  taught  to  Israel, 
till  it  became  such  a  household  word  of  national  sorrow  as  the 
"Flowers  of  the  Forest"  among  ourselves — is  one  of  the  short- 
est as  well  as  sweetest  of  lyrics.  It  is  but  one  gasp  of  genius, 
and  yet  remains  musical  in  the  world's  ear  to  this  hour.  It  is 
difficult,  by  a  single  stroke  upon  the  groat  heart  of  man,  to  pro- 
duce a  sound  which  shall  reverberate  till  it  mingle  with  the  last 
trump  ;  and  yet,  this  did  David  in  Ziklag.  On  a  wild  torn  leaf 
floating  past  him,  he  recorded  his  anguish ;  and  that  leaf,  as  if 
all  the  dew  denied  to  the  hills  of  Gilboa  had  rested  on  it,  is  still 
fresh  with  immortality.  "How  are  the  mighty  fallen ;"  "tell 
it  not  in  Gath  ;"  "  they  were  lovely  in  their  lives,  and  in  their 
death  not  divided  ;"  "  thy  love  to  ine  was  wonderful,  passing  the 
love  of  women" — these  touches  of  nature,  and  accents  of  music, 
have  come  down  to  us  entire,  as  if  all  the  elements  had  conspired 


POETRY    OF   THE    HISTORICAL   BOOKS.  109 

that  such  sounds  should  never  perish.  A  lesson  to  all  who  write 
or  speak  !  Speak  from  the  inmost  hearty  and  your  word,  though 
as  little,  is  as  safe,  as  Moses  in  his  ark  of  bulrushes.  Unseen 
hands  are  stretched  forth  from  all  sides  to  receive  and  to  guard 
it.  It  becomes  a  part  of  the  indestructible  essence  of  things. 
The  poet's  name  may  perish  ;  or,  though  it  remain,  may  repre- 
sent no  intelligible  character ;  but  the  "  Flowers  of  the  Forest" 
and  "  Donocht-head"  must  be  sung  and  wept  over  while^the 
earth  endure th.  Grasp,  though  it  were  with  your  finger,  the 
horns  of  nature's  altar,  and  you  shall  never  be  torn  away.  Let 
the  world  be  ever  so  hurried  in  her  transition  from  age  to  age, 
she  never  can  forget  to  carry  her  least  household  gods  along 
with  her. 

The  picture  in  this  "Bow  Song"  is  perfect  in  its  simplicity. 
On  the  high  places  of  their  last  field  stand  Saul  and  Jonathan, 
soon  to  be  twins  in  death.  Swifter  are  they  than  eagles,  and 
stronger  than  lions.  Beautiful  are  their  feet  upon  the  moun- 
tains. Courage  gleams  in  the  eyes  of  both ;  but  in  Saul  it  is 
the  cotirage  of  despair.  The  scene  of  Endor  still  swims  before 
his  view,  and  the  mantle  of  Samuel  darkens  the  day.  The 
battle  is  joined.  The  Philistines  press  his  army  sore.  Jona- 
than is  slain  before  his  eyes.  Young,  strong,  and  beautiful,  he 
yields  to  a  stronger  than  he.  Saul  himself  is  wounded  by  the 
archers.  The  giant  totters  toward  the  ground,  which  is  already 
wet  with  his  blood.  Feeling  his  fate  inevitable,  he  asks  his 
armor-bearer  to  save,  by  slaying  him,  from  the  hands  of  the 
uncircumcised.  He  refuses — the  unfortunate  throws  himself 
on  his  ow^n  sv/ord,  and  you  hear  him  crying  with  his  final 
breath — "  Not  the  Philistines,  but  thou,  unquiet  spirit  of  Ramah, 
hast  overcome  me."  From  the  hills  of  Gilboa,  the  iraaginatioa 
of  David  leaps  to  Gath,  and  hears  the  shout  with  which  the 
tidings  of  the  king's  death  are  received  there.  But  there  mingles 
■with  it,  in  his  ear,  a  softer,  yet  more  painful  sound.  It  is  the 
wail  of  Israel's  women,  almost  forgetting  their  individual  losses 
in  that  of  Saul,  their  stately  monarch,  and  Jonathan,  his  in- 
genuous son.     And  how  do  years  of  ordinary  sorrow  seem 


110  POETHY    OF    THE    HISTORICAL   BOOKS. 

collected  in  the  words  which  had  long  struggled  obscurely  in 
David's  bosom,  and  often  trembled  on  his  lips,  but  never  been 
expressed  till  now,  when,  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
friendship  became  a  name  too  feeble  for  his  feelings — "My 
brother  Jonathan  1"  If  death  dissolves  dear  relationships,  it 
also  creates  others  dearer  still.  Then,  possibly,  for  the  first 
time,  the  brother  becomes  a  friend  ;  but  then  also  the  friend  is 
often  felt  to  be  more  than  a  brother. 

But  we  may  not  tarry  longer  on  these  dark  and  dewless 
hills.  We  pass  to  that  hold  in  the  wilderness,  which  David 
has  not  yet,  but  is  soon  to  quit,  for  a  capital  and  a  throne.  A 
sentence  makes  that  hold  visible,  as  if  set  in  fire  : — "  And  of 
the  Gadites,  there  separated  themselves  unto  David  into  the. 
hold  in  the  wilderness,  men  of  might,  and  men  of  war  for  the 
battle,  that  could  handle  shield  and  buckler,  whose  faces  were 
like  the  faces  of  lions,  and  were  as  swift  as  the  roes  upon  the 
mountains."  "There  is,"  says  Aird,  "an  Ihad  of  heroes  in 
these  simple  words.  Suppose  David  had  his  harp  in  his 
hand,  in  the  hold,  and  worshiped  with  his  warriors  the  God  of 
Israel  (in  light  introduced  from  the  top  of  the  cave),  what  a 
picture  for  Salvator  or  Rembrandt ;  or,  rather,  the  whole  effect 
is  beyond  the  reach  of  the  pictorial  art.  The  visages  and 
shapes,  majestic  in  light  and  shadow,  in  that  rock-ribbed  den, 
could  be  given  on  the  canvas,  but  nothing  save  the  plastic 
power  of  poetry  could  lighten  the  darkly-congregated  and  pro- 
scribed cave,  with  the  sweet  contrasted  relief  of  the  wild  roes 
without,  unbeleaguered  and  free,  on  the  green  range  of  the  un- 
molested hills.     The  verse  is  a  perfect  poem." 

The  mulberry-trees  next  arise  before  us,  surmounting  the 
valley  of  Rephaim.  In  themselves,  there  is  little  poetrj^  But 
on  their  summits  you  now  hear  a  sound,  the  sound  of  "  a 
going" — mysterious,  for  not  a  breath  of  wind  is  in  the  sky  ;  it 
is  the  "  going"  of  invisible  footsteps,  sounding  a  signal  from 
God  to  David  to  press  his  enemies  hard.  We  have  often 
realized  the  image,  as  we  listened  to  the  wind,  of  innumerable 
tiny  footsteps  treading  upon  the  leaves,  their  minute,  incessant, 


POETRY    01'   THE    HISTORICAL  BOOKS,  HI 

measured,  yet  rapid  dance.  It  seemed  at  once  music  and  dan- 
cing ;  and,  had  it  ceased  in  an  instant,  would  have  reminded  you 
of  the  sudden  silence  of  a  ball-room,  which  a  flash  of  lightning 
had  entered.  It  struck  the  soul  of  Burns,  who,  perhaps,  heard 
in  it  the  sound  of  spirits  sullenly  bending  to  overwhelming 
destiny,  and  found  it  reflective  of  his  own  history.  But  in  the 
scene  at  Kephaim,  it  appeared  as  if  armies  were  moving  along 
the  high  tops  of  the  trees ;  as,  in  "  Macbeth,"  the  wood  began 
to  move.  Nature,  from  her  high  green  places,  seemed  making 
common  cause  against  the  invader ;  and,  in  the  windless  waving 
of  the  boughs,  was  heard  the  cheer  of  inevitable  victory.  "Would 
to  God,  that,  in  the  silence  of  the  present  expectation  of  the 
Church,  a  "  going,"  even  as  of  the  stately  steps  of  Divine 
Majesty,  were  heard  above,  to  re-assure  the  timid  among  the 
Church's  friends,  and  to  abash  the  stout-hearted  among  her 
foes. 

From  the  thick  of  poetical  passages  and  events  in  the  other 
parts  of  Jewish  history,  we  select  a  few — the  fewer,  that  the 
mountains  of  prophecy  which  command  at  every  point  the  his- 
tory remain  to  be  scaled.  We  find  in  Nathan's  parable  "  a 
lamb  for  a  burnt-offering,"  the  simj^lest  of  stories,  producing  the 
most  tremendous  of  heart-quakes.  No  four  words  in  any  lan- 
guage are  simpler,  and  none  stronger,  than  the  words,  "  Thou 
art  the  Man."  What  effect  one  quiet  sentence  can  produce  ! 
The  whispers  of  the  gods,  how  strong  and  thrilling !  Nathan, 
that  gentle  prophet,  becomes  surrounded  with  the  grandeur  of 
an  apparition,  and  his  words  fall  like  the  slow,  heavy  drops  of 
a  thunder-shower.  The  princely,  gallant,  and  gifted  king  quails 
before  him  ;  and  how  can  you  recognize  the  author  of  the  18th 
Psalm,  with  its  fervid  and  resistless  rush  of  words  and  images, 
like  coals  of  fire,  in  that  poor  prostrate  worm,  groveling  on  the 
ground,  and  afraid  of  the  eyes  of  his  own  servants  ? 

The  genius  of  David  remains  for  the  analysis  of  the  next 
chapter.  But  we  must  not  omit  the  darkest  and  most  poetic 
hour  in  all  his  history,  when  he  cast  himself  into  the  hands  of 
God  rather  than  of  men  ;  and,  when  under  the  fiery  sword  a©d 


112  POETRY    OF    THE    HISTORICAL   BOOKS. 

the  menacing  angel,  we  can  conceive  admiration  for  the  magnifi- 
cence of  the  spectacle,  contending  with  terror — his  cheek  pale, 
but  his  eye  burning — the  king  in  panic — the  poet  in  transport, 
and  grasping  instinctively  for  a  harp  he  had  not  to  express 
his  high-strung  emotions.  Lightning  pausing  ere  it  strikes — the 
poison  of  Pestilence,  hung  over  the  "  high-viced  city"  in  the 
sick  air — Death,  in  the  fine  fiction  of  Le  Sage,  coming  up  to  the 
morning  Madrid — must  yield  to  this  figure  leaning  over  the 
devoted  city  of  God,  while  both  earth  and  heaven  seem  wait- 
ing to  hear  the  blow  which  shall  break  a  silence  too  painful  and 
profound. 

Besides  Solomon's  Proverbs  and  Poems,  there  are  in  his  life 
certain  incidents  instinct  with  imagination.  The  choice  of 
Hercules  is  a  fine  apologue,  but  has  not  the  sublimity  or  the 
completeness  of  the  choice  of  Solomon. 

Then  there  are  the  sublime  circumstances  of  the  dedication 
of  the  temple  ;  the  pomp  of  the  procession  by  which  the  aik 
was  brought  up  from  the  City  of  David  to  the  pi'ouder  resting- 
place  his  son  had  prepared  ;  the  assemblage  of  all  Israel  to  wit- 
ness the  solemnity  ;  the  sacrifice  of  innumerable  sheep  and  oxen 
covering  the  temple  and  dimming  the  day  with  a  cloud  of  fra- 
grance ;  the  slow  march  of  the  priests,  throu^-h  the  courts  and 
up  the  stairs  of  the  glorious  fabric,  till  the  sanctuary  was 
reached  ;  the  music,  which  attended  the  march,  peopling  every 
corner  and  crevice  of  the  building  with  its  voluminous  and 
searching  swell ;  the  moment  when  the  sudden  ceasing  of  the 
music,  in  raid-volume,  told  the  people  without  that  the  ark  was 
now  resting  in  its  "own  place;"  the  louder  strain,  of  cymbals, 
psalteries,  harps,  and  trumpets,  which  awoke  when  the  priests 
returned  from  the  most  holy  place ;  the  slow  coming  down,  as 
if  in  answer  to  the  signal  of  the  music,  of  the  cloud  of  the  glory 
of  God — a  cloud  of  dusky  splendor,  at  once  brighter  than  day 
and  darker  than  midnight — the  very  cloud  of  Sinai,  but  with- 
out its  thunders  or  lightnings  ;  the  music  quaking  into  silence, 
and  the  priests  throwing  themselves  on  the  ground,  before  the 
"  darkness  visible"  which  fills  the  whole  house,  lowerinoj  over 


POETRY    OF   THE    HISTORICAL   BOOKS.  113 

the  foreheads  of  the  bulls  of  brass,  and  blackening  the  waves  of 
the  molten  sea ;  and  the  august  instant  when  Solomon,  trem- 
bling yet  elate,  mounts  the  brazen  scaffold,  and  standing  dim- 
discovered  amid  a  mist  of  glory,  spreads  out  his  hands,  and, 
in  the  audience  of  the  people,  utters  that  prayer,  so  worthy  of 
the  scene,  "But  will  God  indeed  dwell  on  the  earth  ?  Behold, 
the  heaven,  and  the  heaven  of  heavens  can  not  contain  thee,  how 
much  less  this  house  that  I  have  builded  ?"  Surely  Solomon 
here,  next  to  Moses  on  Sinai,  had  reached  the  loftiest  ^o/ftY  ever 
permitted  to  mortal  man. 

But  time  would  fail  us  even  to  glance  at  the  numerous  re- 
maining poetical  incidents,  circumstances,  and  passages  in  the 
historical  books.  We  must  omit,  reluctantly,  the  visit  of  the 
Empress  of  Sheba  to  Sultan  Solomon — Micaiah's  vision  of 
Raraoth-Gilead,  and  of  what  was  to  befall  Israel  and  its  king 
there — the  destruction  of  Sennacherib  and  his  army,  in  one 
night,  by  the  angel  of  the  Lord — the  great  passover  of  Josiah 
— and,  besides  several  incidents,  already  alluded  to  as  occurring 
in  Ezra  and  iSTehemiah,  the  history  of  Esther — a  history  so 
simple,  so  full  of  touches  of  nature  and  glimpses  into  character, 
so  divine,  without  any  mention  of  the  name  of  God.  The  most 
impassioned  lover  is  the  secret,  who  never  names  his  mistress. 
The  ocean  is  not  less  a  worshiper  that  she  mutters  not  her 
Maker's  name.  The  sun  is  mute  in  his  courts  of  praise.  In 
Esther,  God  dwells,  as  the  heart  in  the  human  frame — not 
visible,  hardly  heard,  and  yet  thrilling  and  burning  in  every 
artery  and  vein.  No  label  proclaims  his  presence,  but  the  lifa 
of  the  book  ha^  been  all  derived  from  Him. 


CHAPTEEYII. 

POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS. 

We  have,  in  tlie  previous  chapter,  rather  outshot  the  period 
of  the  Psahiis ;  but  we  must  throw  out  a  hne,  and  take  up 
David,  ere  we  sail  further. 

No  character  has  suffered  more  than  that  of  David,  from  all 
sorts  of  imperfect  appreciation.  While  some  have  treated  him 
as  a  monster  of  cruelty  and  lust,  classing*  him  with  the  JSTeros 
and  Domitians,  others  have  invested  him  with  almost  divine 
immunities,  as  if  we  had  no  more  right  to  ask  at  him  than  at 
God,  "  AVhat  dost  thou  V — as  if  his  motions  had  been  irre- 
proachable as  those  of  the  wind,  and  his  vengeance  inevitable 
as  the  thunderbolt.  David,  in  our  view  of  him,  was  neither  a 
monster  nor  a  deity — neither  a  bad  man  nor  by  any  means  the 
highest  of  Scripture  worthies.  William  Hazlitt  has  nowhere 
more  disgraced  his  talents,  amid  his  many  offenses,  than  in  a 
wretched  paper  in  the  "  Round  Table,"  where  he  describes  David 
as  a  crowned  spiritual  hypocrite,  passing  from  debasing  sins  to 
debasing  services — debauching  Bathsheba,  murdering  Uriah, 
and  then  going  to  the  top  of  his  palace,  and  singing  out  his 
penitence  in  strains  of  hollow  melody.  Paine  himself,  even  in 
his  last  putrid  state,  never  uttered  a  coarser  calumny  than  this. 
ISTor  ever  did  the  pure  and  lofty  spirit  of  Edward  Irving  look 
nobler,  and  speak  in  higher  tones,  than  when,  in  his  preface  to 
"  Home  on  the  Psalms,"  he  gave  a  mild,  yet  stern  verdict  upon 
the  character  of  this  royal  bard — a  verdict  in  which  judgment 
and  mercy  are  both  found,  but  with  "  mercy  rejoicing  against 
judgment."     Many  years   have  elapsed  since  we  read   that 


POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS.  115 

paper,  and,  should  our  views,  now  to  be  given,  happen,  as  we 
hope,  to  be  found  to  coincide  with  it,  we  must  still  claim  them 
as  our  own.  We  remember  little  more  than  its  tone  and 
spirit. 

David  was  a  composite,  though  not  a  chaotic,  formation.  At 
first,  we  find  him  as  simple  and  noble  a  child  of  God,  nature, 
and  genius,  as  ever  breathed.  A  shepherd  boy,  watching  now 
the  lambs,  and  now  the  stars,  his  sleep  is  peradventure  haunted 
by  dreams  of  high  enterprise  and  coming  glory,  but  his  days 
are  calm  and  peaceful  as  those  of  the  boy  in  the  Valley  of  Hu- 
miliation, who  carried  the  herb  "  heart's-ease"  in  his  bosom,  and 
sang  (next  to  David's  own  23d  Psalm)  the  sweetest  of  all  pas- 
torals, closing  with  the  lines — 

"  Here  little,  and  hereafter,  bliss 
Is  best  from  age  to  age." 

And  yet  this  boy  had  done,  even  ere  he  went  to  the  camp  of 
Israel,  one  deed  of  "  derring-do  ;"  he  had  wet  his  hands  in  the 
blood  of  a  hon  and  a  bear.  This  had  given  him  a  modest  sense 
of  his  own  strength,  and  perhaps  begun  to  circulate  a  secret 
thrill  of  ambition  throughout  his  veins ;  and  when  he  obeyed 
the  command  of  Jesse  to  repair  to  his  brethren  in  the  host,  it 
might  be  with  a  foreboding  of  triumph,  and  a  smelling  of  the 
battle  afar  off.  We  can  conceive  few  subjects  fitter  for  picture 
or  poetry,  than  that  of  the  young  David  measuring  the  mass  of 
steel — Goliath — with  an  eye  which  mingled  in  its  ray,  wonder, 
eagerness,  anger,  and 

"That  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 
In  foemen  worthy  of  their  steel." 

A  hundred  battles  looked  forth  in  that  lingering,  longing,  m- 
satiate  glance.  Every  one  knows  the  result  to  the  giant  of 
Gath:  he  fell  before  the  smooth  sling-stone.  The  result  on 
David's  mind  is  not  quite  so  evident ;  but  we  think  that  all  the 
praises  and  promotion  he  received,  did  not  materially  affect  the 


116         POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS. 

simplicity  of  Lis  habits,  or  tlie  integrity  of  liis  purposes.  Nor 
did,  at  first,  the  persecution  of  Saul  much  exasperate  Lis  spirit, 
balanced  as  tliat  was  by  the  love  of  Jonathan.  But  Lis  long- 
continued  flight  and  exile — the  insecurity  of  Lis  life,  the  con- 
verse Le  Lad  with  "  wild  men  and  wild  usages"  in  tLe  cave  of 
Adullam  and  tLe  wilderness  of  ZipL — altLougL  they  failed  in 
weaning  him  from  his  God,  or  Lis  JonatLan,  or  even  Saul — did 
not  fail  somevvLat  to  embitter  his  generous  nature,  and  to  ren- 
der him  less  fitted  for  bearing  the  prosperity  which  suddenly 
brake  upon  him.  More  men  are  prepared  for  suddenjdeath 
than  for  sudden  success.  Even  after  he  had  reached  the  throne 
of  his  father-in-law,  there  remained  long,  obscure  contests  with 
the  remnant  of  Saul's  party,  sudden  inroads  from  the  Philis- 
tines, and  a  sullen,  dead  resistance  on  the  part  of  the  old  heathen 
inhabitants  of  the  land,  to  annoy  his  spirit.  And  when  after- 
ward Le  Lad  brought  up  the  ark  of  the  Lord  to  the  city  of 
David — when  the  Philistines  were  bridled,  the  Syrians  smitten, 
the  Ammonites  chastised,  and  their  city  on  the  point  of  being 
taken — from  this  very  pride  of  place  David  fell — fell  foully — • 
but  fell  not  forever.  From  that  hour,  his  life  ran  on  in  a  cur- 
rent of  disaster  checkered  with  splendid  successes  ;  it  was  a 
tract  of  irregular  and  ragged  glory,  tempering  at  last  into  a 
troubled  yet  beautiful  sunset.  But  all  the  elements  for  our 
judgment  of  it  had  been  collected  by  the  time  that  the  "  matter 
of  Uriah"  was  fully  transacted. 

A  noble  nature,  stung  before  its  sin,  and  seared  before  its 
time,  contending  between  the  whirlpool  of  passion  and  the 
strong,  still  impulses  of  poetry  and  faith,  ruling  all  spirits  ex- 
cej)t  his  oum,  and  yet  forever  seeking  to  regulate  it,  too,  sincere 
in  all  things — in  sin  and  in  repentance — butsincerest  in  repent- 
ance— often  neglecting  the  special  precept,  but  ever  loving  the 
general  tenor  of  the  law,  unreconciled  to  his  age  or  circum- 
stances, and  yet  always  striving  after  such  a  reconciliation, 
harassed  by  early  grief,  great  temptations,  terrible  trials  in  ad- 
vanced life,  and  views  necessarily  dim  and  imperfect — David, 
nevertheless,  retained  to  the  last  his  heart,  his  intellect,  his  sim- 


POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS.  Il7 

plicit}'',  his  devotion — above  all,  bis  sincerity — loved  bis  God, 
saw  from  afar  off  his  Redeemer;  and  let  the  man  who  is  "  with- 
out sin,"  among'  his  detractors,  cast  the  first  stone.  His  char- 
acter is  checkered^  but  the  stripes  outnumber  the  stains,  and  the 
streaks  of  light  outnumber  both.  In  his  life,  there  is  no  lurking- 
place — all  is  plain  ;  the  heights  are  mountains — '^  the  hills  of 
holiness,"  where  a  free  spirit  walks  abroad  in  singing  robes ; 
the  valleys  are  depths,  out  of  which  you  hear  the  voice  of  a 
prostrate  penitent  pleading  for  mercy,  but  nothing  is,  or  can 
be,  concealed,  since  it  is  God's  face  which  shows  both  the  lights 
and  shadows  of  the  scene.  David,  if  not  the  greatest  or  best 
of  inspired  men,  was  certainly  one  of  the  most  extraordinary. 
You  must  try  him  not,  indeed,  by  divine  or  angelic  comparison  ; 
but  if  there  be  any  allowance  for  the  aberrations  of  a  tortured, 
childlike,  devout  son  of  genius — if  the  nobler  beasts  of  the 
•wilderness  themselves  will  obey  a  law^,  and  observe  a  chronol- 
ogy, and  follow  a  path  of  their  own,  then  let  the  wanderer  of 
Adullam  be  permitted  to  enter,  or  to  leave  his  cave  at  his  own 
time,  and  in  his  own  way,  seeing  that  his  wanderings  were 
never  intended  for  a  map  to  others,  and  that  those  who  follow 
are  sure  to  find  that  they  are  aught  but  ways  of  pleasantness  or 
of  peace  to  them. 

David's  genius  reflects,  of  course,  partially  the  phases  of  hia 
general  character.  It  is  a  high,  bold  energy,  combining  the 
fire  of  the  warrior  and  the  finer  enthusiasm  of  the  lyric  poet. 
This  is  its  general  tone,  but  it  undergoes  numerous  modifica- 
tions. At  one  time,  it  rises  into  a  swell  of  grandeur,  in  which 
the  strings  of  his  harp  shiver,  as  if  a  storm  were  the  harper. 
Again,  it  sinks  into  a  deej),  solitary  plant,  like  the  cry  of  the 
bittern  in  the  lonely  pool.  At  a  third  time,  it  is  a  little  gush 
of  joy — a  mere  smile  of  devout  gladness  transferred  to  his 
strain.  Again,  it  is  a  quick  and  earnest  cry  for  deliverance 
from  present  danger.  Now,  his  Psalms  are  fine,  general  moral- 
izings,  and  now  they  involve  heart-searching  self-examinations  ; 
now  they  are  prophecies,  and  now  notes  of  defiance  to  his  ene- 
mies ;  now  pastorals,  and  now  bursts  of  praise.     Ere  speaking 


118         POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS. 

of  some  of  them  individually,  we  have  a  few  general  remarks 
to  offer  :~— 

First,  Few  of  the  Psalms  are  fancy-pieces,  or  elaborated  from 
the  mind  of  the  poet  alone  :  most  are  founded  upon  facts  which 
have  newly  occurred,  whether  those  facts  be  distinctly  enun- 
ciated, or  only  implied.  David  is  flying  from  Saul,  and  he  strips 
off  a  song,  as  he  might  a  garment,  to  expedite  his  flight,  or  he 
is  in  the  hold  in  the  wilderness,  and  he  sings  a  strain  to  soothe 
his  anxious  soul,  or  he  is  overtaken  and  pressed  hard  by  the 
Philistines,  and  he  makes  musical  his  cry  for  safety,  or  he  has 
fallen  into  a  grievous  sin,  and  his  penitence  blossoms  into 
poetry,  or  he  is  sitting  forlorn  in  Gath,  while  the  idolaters 
around  are  deriding  or  denying  the  Lord  God  of  Israel,  and  he 
murmurs  to  himself  the  words  :  "  The  fool  hath  said  in  his 
heart,  there  is  no  God,"  and  describes  the  Lord  looking  down 
in  anger  upon  a  world  lying  in  wickedness.  This,  which  is 
common  to  the  Psalms,  with  much  of  the  other  poetry  of  Scrip- 
ture, gives  an  unspeakable  freshness,  force,  and  truth  to  them 
all.  Each  flower  stands  rooted  in  truth  ;  the  poetry  is  just  fact 
on  fire.  We  have  now  what  is  called  "occasional  poetry,"  but 
the  occasions  thus  recorded  are  generally  small,  such  as  the 
sight  of  the  first  snow-drop,  or  the  reading  of  a  fine  novel  in 
romantic  circumstances.  But  suppose  a  Wallace  or  a  Bruce,  a 
Mina  or  a  Bolivar,  a  Wellington  or  a  Napoleon,  had  been 
writers,  and  had  let  oft'  in  verse  the  spray  of  their  adventures, 
successes,  escapes,  and  agonies — suppose  we  had,  from  iheir 
own  tongues  or  pens,  Wallace's  feelings  after  Falkirk,  or  JSTa- 
poleon's  song  of  Lodi,  or  his  fugitive  poetry  during  the  cam- 
paign of  1814 — these  had  borne  some  resemblance  to  the 
burning  life  of  David's  Psalms. 

Secondly,  We  find  in  them  great  variety,  extending  not  only 
to  the  Psalms  as  a  whole,  but  as  separate  compositions.  Many 
of  them  begin,  for  instance,  with  lamentation,  and  end  with 
rapture,  while  others  reverse  this.  In  some  of  the  shortest,  we 
find  all  the  compass  of  the  gamut  described,  from  the  groan  to 
the  pean,  from  the  deep  self-accusation  to  the  transport  of 


POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS.  119 

gratitude.  Hcuce  a  singular  completeness  in  tliem,  and  an 
adaptation  to  the  feelings  of  those  mixed  assemblies  which  were 
destined  to  sing  them.  "  Is  any  merry  ?  let  him  sing  Psalms ;" 
but  is  any  melancholy,  few  of  those  Psalms  close  without  ex- 
pressing sympathy  with  his  desolate  feelings  too. 

Thirdly,  What  were  the  causes  of  this  variety  ?  It  sprang 
partly  from  the  varying  moods  of  David's  mind,  which  was  sin- 
gularly sensitive  in  its  feelings,  and  rapid  in  its  transitions  from 
feeling  to  feehng,  and  from  thought  to  thought — his  life  was,  and 
his  poetry  is,  an  April  day — and  partly  because,  being  a  prophet, 
his  prophetic  insight  often  comes  in  to  shed  the  bright  smile 
of  his  future  prospects  upon  the  darkness  of  his  present  state. 

Fourthly,  We  notice  in  the  Psalms  a  "  more  exceeding" 
simplicity  and  artlessness,  than  in  the  rest  of  even  Scripture 
poetry.  Any  current,  though  it  were  of  blood  or  of  flame, 
looks  less  spontaneous  than  the  single  spark  or  blood-drop. 
Many  of  the  prophetic  writings  have  a  force,  and  swell,  and 
fierceness,  approaching  to  a  certain  elaboration  ;  while  David's 
strains  distill,  like  "  honey  from  the  rock."  The  swift  succes- 
sion of  his  moods  is  childlike.  His  raptures  of  enthusiasm  are 
as  brief  as  they  are  lofty.  Every  thing  proclaims  a  primitive 
age,  a  primitive  country,  and  a  primitive  spirit.  Such  snatches 
of  song,  unimpregnated  with  religion,  sung  the  Caledonian 
bards  in  their  wildernesses,  and  the  fair-haired  Scalds  of  Den- 
mark in  their  galleys. 

Fifthly,  The  piety  of  the  Psalms  is  altogether  inexplicable, 
except  on  the  theory  of  a  peculiar  inspiration.  The  touched 
spirit  of  David,  whether  wandering  in  the  desert,  or  seated  in 
his  own  palace  ;  whether  in  defeat  or  victory  ;  whether  in  glory 
or  in  deep  guilt — turns  instinctively  to  heaven.  Firmly,  with 
his  blood-red  hand,  he  grasps  the  Book  of  the  Law  of  his  God  ! 
From  old  promises,  as  well  ns  fresh  revelations,  he  extracts  the 
hope,  and  builds  up  the  image  of  a  coming  Redeemer  !  It  is 
beautiful  especially  to  see  the  wanderer  of  Maon  and  Engedi, 
surrounded  by  the  lion-faces  of  his  men — the  center  of  Israel's 
disaffection,  distress,  and  despair — retiring  from  their  company, 


120         POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS. 

to  pray,  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock  ;  or,  sleepless,  amid  their  sav- 
age, sleeping  forms,  and  the  wild  music  of  their  breathing, 
sino-ino-  to  his  own  soul  those  sacred  poems,  which  have  been 
the  life  of  devotion  in  every  successive  age.  It  is  often,  after 
all,  to  such  places,  and  to  such  society,  that  lofty  genius,  like 
Salvator's,  goes,  to  extract  a  desert  wealth  of  inspiration, 
which  is  to  be  found  nowhere  else.  But  it  is  not  often  that  such 
hard-won  spoils  are  carried  home  and  laid  on  the  altar  of  God. 
Sixthly,  from  all  these  qualities  of  the  Psalms,  arises  their 
exquisite  adaptation  to  the  praising  purposes,  alike  of  private 
Christians,  of  families,  and  of  public  assemblies,  in  every  age. 
We  are  fiir  from  denying  that  other  aids  to,  and  expressions  of, 
devotion  may  be  legitimately  used  ;  but  David,  after  all,  has 
been  the  chief  singer  of  the  Church,  and  the  hold  in  the  wilder- 
ness is  still  its  grand  orchestra.  Some,  indeed,  as  of  old,  that 
are  discontented  and  disgusted  with  life,  may  have  repaired  to 
it,  but  there,  too,  you  trace  the  footsteps  of  the  widow  and 
fatherless.  There  the  stranger,  in  a  strange  land,  has  dried  his 
tears  ;  and  there  those  of  the  penitent  have  been  loosened 
in  gracious  showers.  There,  the  child  has  received  an  early 
foretaste  of  the  sweetness  of  the  green  pastures  and  still  waters 
of  piety.  There,  the  aged  has  been  taught  confidence  against 
life  or  death,  in  the  sure  mercies  of  David ;  and  there,  the 
darkness  of  the  depressed  spirit  has  been  raised  up,  and  away 
like  a  cloud  on  the  viewless  tongue  of  the  morning  wind.  But 
mightier  spirits,  too,  have  derived  strength  from  those  Hebrew 
melodies.  The  soul  of  the  Reformer  has  vibrated  under  them 
to  its  depths  ;  and  the  lone  hand  of  a  Luther,  holding  his  banner 
before  the  eyes  of  Europe,  has  trembled  less  that  it  was  stretched 
out  to  the  tune  of  David's  heroic  psalms.  On  them  the  freed 
spirit  of  the  martyr  has  soared  aw^ay.  And  have  not  destruction 
and  death  heard  their  fame,  when,  on  the  brown  heaths  of  Scot- 
land, the  stern  lay  was  lifted  up  by  the  persecuted,  like  a  new- 
drawn  sword,  and  waved  flashing  before  the  eyes  of  the  foemen — 

"  In  Judah's  land,  God  is  well  known,  "" 

His  name's  in  Israel  great ; 


POETRY  OP  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS.  121 

In  Salem  is  his  tabernacle, 
%       In  Zion  is  his  seat. 

There  arrows  of  the  bow  he  brake, 

The  shield,  the  sword,  the  war ; 
More  glorious  thou  than  hills  of  prey, 

More  excellent  art  far." 

Wild,  holy,  tameless  strains,  how  have  ye  ran  down  through 
ages,  in  which  large  poems,  systems,  and  religions,  have  per- 
ished, firing  the  souls  of  poets,  kissing  the  hps  of  children, 
smoothing  the  pillows  of  the  dying,  storming  the  warrior  to 
heroic  rage,  perfuming  the  chambers  of  solitary  saints,  and 
clasping  into  one  the  hearts  and  voices  of  thousands  of  assem- 
bled worshipers;  tinging  many  a  literature,  and  finding  a 
home  in  many  a  land  ;  and  still  ye  seem  as  fresh,  and  young, 
and  powerful  as  ever ;  yea,  preparing  for  even  mightier  tri- 
umphs than  when  first  chanted!  Britain,  Germany,  and 
America  now  sing  you ;  but  you  must  yet  awaken  the  dumb 
millios  of  China  and  Japan. 

We  select  two  or  three  of  them  for  particular  survey.  We 
have  first  the  8th  Psalm,  which,  if  not  one  of  David's  earliest 
productions,  seems,  at  least,  to  reflect  faithfully  his  early  feel- 
ings. The  boy's  feelings,  when  crystalized  by  the  force  of  the 
man's  experience,  are  generally  genuine  poetry.  The  moods  of 
youth,  when  clad  in  the  words  of  manhood,  and  directed  to  its 
purposes,  become  "  apples  of  gold,  set  in  a  network  of  silver." 
The  inspiring  thought,  in  this  solemn  little  chant,  is  that  of 
wonder — the  root  of  all  devotion,  as  well  as  of  all  poetry  and 
philosophy.  "  When  I  consider  thy  heavens,  the  work  of  thy 
fino-ers — the  moon  and  the  stars,  which  thou  hast  ordained — 
what  is  man  ?"  The  point  of  view  he  thus  assumes  is  inex- 
phcable,  except  on  the  supposition  of  his  entertaining  an  ap- 
proximately true  notion  of  the  magnitude  of  those  starry  globes. 
If  they  had  appeared  to  him  only  a  few  hundred  bright 
spangles  on  the  black  robe  of  night,  what  was  there  in  them  so 
to  have  dwarfed  the  earth,  with  its  vast  expanse  and  teeming 
popuMion  ?  But  David's  imagination  and  faith  combined  to  turn 


122         POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS. 

his  eye  into  a  telescope — a  glimmer  of  tLe  true  starry  scLemo 
came  like  a  revelation  to  his  soul ;  and,  consideriil^  at  once  the 
magnitude  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  and  their  order,  beauty,  and 
luster,  he  cried  out,  "  What  is  man  ?"  This  was  his  first  feel- 
ing ;  but  it  was  breathlessly  followed  by  a  perception  of  the 
exceeding  grandeur  of  man's  position  in  reference  to  this  lower 
world.  "  Thou  hast  made  him  lord  over  the  works  of  thy 
hands  below,"  although  these  sovereign  heavens  seem  to  defy 
his  dominion,  and  to  laugh  over  his  tiny  head.  It  was  not 
permitted  even  to  David  to  foresee  the  time  when  man's  strong 
hand  was  to  draw  that  sky  nearer,  like  a  curtain — when  man 
was  to  unfold  its  laws,  to  predict  its  revolutions,  and  to  plant 
the  flag  of  triumph  upon  its  remote  pinnacles.  Since  his  eye 
rested,  half  in  despair,  upon  that  ocean  of  glory,  and  since  he 
drew  back  from  it  in  shuddering  admiration,  how  many  bold 
divers  have,  from  every  point  of  the  shore,  plunged  amid  its 
waters,  and  what  spoils  brought  home — here  the  single  pearl  of 
a  planet,  and  here  the  rich  coral  of  a  constellation,  and  here 
again,  the  convolulted  shell  of  a  firmament — besides,  what  all 
have  tended  to  give  us,  the  hope  of  fairer  treasures,  of  entire 
argosies  of  supersolar  spoil,  till  the  word  of  the  poet  shall  be- 
come true — 

"  Heaven,  hast  thou  secrets  ? 
Man  unbares  me,  I  have  none." 

As  a  proper  pendant  to  the  8th  Psalm,  we  name  next  the 
139th. 

Here  the  poet  inverts  his  gaze,  from  the  blaze  of  suns, 
to  the  strange  atoms  composing  his  own  frame.  He  stands 
shuddering  over  the  precipice  of  himself.  Above  is  the  All- 
enoompassing  Spirit,  from  whom  the  morning  wings  can  not 
save,  and  below,  at  a  deep  distance,  appears  amid  the  branch- 
ing forest  of  his  animal  frame,  so  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
made,  the  abyss  of  his  spiritual  existence,  lying  like  a  dark 
lake  in  the  midst.  How,  between  mystery  and  mystery,  his 
mind,  his  wonder,  his  very  reason,  seem  to  rock  hke  a  little 


POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS.  123 

boat  between  the  sea  and  the  sky.  But  speedily  does  he  re- 
gain his  serenity  ;  when  he  throws  himself,  with  childlike  haste 
and  confidence  into  the  arras  of  that  Fatherly  Spirit,  and  mur- 
murs in  his  bosom,  "  How  precious  also  are  thy  thoughts  unto 
me,  O  God  ;  how  great  is  the  sum  of  them  ;"  and  looking  up 
at  last  in  his  face,  cries—"  Search  me,  O  Lord.  lean  not  search 
thee ;  I  can  not  search  myself;  I  am  overwhelmed  by  those 
dreadful  depths  ;  but  search  me  as  thou  only  canst;  see  if  there 
be  any  wicked  way  in  me,  and  lead  me  in  the  way  everlast- 
ing." 

But  hark  !  the  "  voice  of  the  Lord  is  upon  the  waters."  The 
God  of  glory  thundereth,  and  it  is  a  powerful  voice  which 
Cometh  forth  from  the  Lord.  No  marvel  that  David's  blood  is 
up,  and  that  you  see  his  hand  "  pav/ing,"  like  Job's  war-horse, 
for  the  pen  of  the  lightning.  The  29Lh  Psalm  surpasses  all 
descriptions  of  a  thunder-storm,  including  those  of  Lucretius, 
Virgil,  and  Byron,  admirable  as  all  those  are.  That  of  Lucretius 
is  a  hubbub  of  matter ;  the  lightning  is  a  m.ere  elemental  dis- 
charge, not  a  barbed  arrow  of  vengeance  ;  his  system  will  not 
permit  a  powerful  personification.  Virgil's  picture  in  the 
Georgics  is  superb,  but  has  been  somewhat  vulgarized  to  our 
feelings  by  many  imitations,  and  the  old  commonplaces  about 
"Father  Jove,  and  his  thunderbolts."  Byron  does  not  give 
us  that  overwhelming  sense  of  unity  which  is  the  poetry  of  a 
thunder-storm — cloud  answers  to  cloud,  and  mountain  to  moun- 
tain ;  it  is  a  brisk  and  animated  controversy  in  the  heavens, 
but  you  have  not  the  feeling  of  all  nature  bowing  below  the 
presence  of  one  avenging  Power,  with  difficulty  restrained  from 
breakino;  forth  to  consume — of  one  voice  creating^  the  sounds — 
of  one  form  hardly  concealed  by  the  darkness — of  one  hand 
grasping  the  livid  reins  of  the  passing  chariot — and  of  one  sigh 
of  relief  testifying  to  the  feelings  of  gratitude  on  the  part  of 
nature  and  of  man — when,  in  the  dispersion  of  the  storm,  the 
one  mysterious  power  and  presence  has  passed  away.  It  is  the 
godhood  of  thunder  which  the  Hebrew  poet  has  expressed,  and 
no  other  poet  has.     Like  repeated  peals,  the  name  of  the  Lord 


124  POETRY    OF    THE    TIOOK    OF   TSALMS. 

Rounds  down  all  tlio  20Lli  J\srilin,  solcnmizini;-  and  harmonizing 
it  all — "  Thu  voice  of  the  Lord  is  upon  the  waters — the  God  of 
glory  thundereth  ;  the  Lord  breakoth  the  cedars  of  Lebanon ;  the 
Lord  shakcth  the  wilderness  of  Jvadcsh  ;  the  voice  of  the  Lord 
maketh  the  liinds  to  calve,  and  discovereth  the  forests ;  the 
Lord  siUoth  ii]>oii  i\n\  Hood  ;  the  Lord  will  i;-ive  strength  unto 
his  people  ;  the  JA)rd  will  bless  liis  people  with  peace."  Thus 
are  all  the  j)henouiena  of  the  storm — from  the  agitated  waters 
of  the  sea,  to  the  crashing  cedars  of  Lebanon — from  the  dej)ths 
of  Jiashan's  forest,  bared  to  its  every  fallen  leaf,  and  every  ser- 
pent's hole,  in  the  glare  of  the  lightning,  to  the  premature  calv- 
ing of  the  Idnd — from  the  awe  of  the  quaking  wikhirncss,  to 
the  solemn  peace  and  whispered  worship  of  Cod's  people  in  bis 
temi)lc — bound  together  by  the  name  and  presence  of  God  as 
by  a  chain  of  living  lire, 

"  When  Bciencc,  from  creation's  faco, 
Kiichantinent's  vail  withdraws, 
What  lovely  visioiia  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws." 

True,  but  not  merely  love///  l)ut  dreadful  visions  recede  before 
the  dawn  of  science ;  while  the  rainbow  becomes  less  beautiful, 
t^ho  thunder  becomes  less  sublime.  Jiut  this  poet  seems  not  to 
feel,  that,  when  science  reaches  its  noonday,  those  visions  shall 
return,  for,  indeed,  they  are  something  better  than  mere  visions. 
The  thunder,  after  all,  is  the  voice  of  (Jod.  Every  particle  of 
that  tempest  is  an  instant  emanation  from  a  present  Deity. 
Analyze  electricity  as  strictly  as  you  can,  the  question  recurs, 
"  What  is  it,  whence  comes  it  ?"  and  the  answer  must  bo, 
From  an  inconceivable,  illimitable  Tower  behind  and  within 
those  elements — in  one  word,  from  (Jod.  So  that  the  boy 
who  throws  himself  down  in  terror  before  the  black  cloud, 
as  before  a  frown,  is  wiser  than  the  man  of  science,  who 
regards  it  as  ho  would  its  picture.  So  that  the  devout  female 
who  cries  out,  "  there's  the  power  to  crusli  us,  were  it  but  per- 
mitted," is  nearer  the  truth  than  the  i)ert  prater  who,  amid  the 


POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS.  125 

play  of  those  arrows  of  God,  takes  out  his  watch  to  calculate 
their  distance,  or  turns  round  to  prove,  according  to  the  doc- 
trine of  chances,  that  there  is  httle  or  no  danger.  So  that 
the  cono;re<i'ation,  who  are  awed  to  silence  by  this  oratorv,  are 
the  real  savants  of  the  thunder,  which  must,  like  all  natural 
objects,  reflect  the  feelings  of  the  human  soul ;  and  the  higher 
that  soul,  it  will  appear  the  more  mysterious ;  and  the  humbler 
that  soul,  it  will  appear  the  more  terrible.  The  ignorant  may 
regard  it  with  superstition — the  great  and  good  must,  with 
solemn  reverence. 

The  18th  Psalm  is  called  by  Michaelis  more  artificial,  and 
less  truly  terrible,  than  the  Mosaic  odes.  In  structure,  it  may 
be  so,  but  surely  not  in  spirit.  It  appears  to  many  besides  us, 
one  of  the  most  magn-ificent  lyrical  raptures  in  the  Scriptures.  As 
if  the  poet  had  dipped  his  pen  in  "  the  brightness  of  that  light 
which  was  before  his  eye,"  so  he  describes  the  descending  God. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  objected  that  the  nodus  is  hardly  worthy  of 
the  vindex — to  deliver  David  from  his  enemies,  could  Deity 
even  be  imagined  to  come  down  ?  But  the  objector  knows  not 
the  character  of  the  ancient  Hebrew  mind.  That  mind  was 
"  DRUNK  WITH  GoD."  He  had  not  to  descend  from  heaven ; 
he  was  nigh — a  cloud  hke  a  man's  hand  might  conceal 
— a  cry,  a  look  might  bring  him  down.  And  why  should 
not  David's  fjincy  clothe  him,  as  he  came,  in  a  panoply  be- 
fitting his  dignity,  in  clouds  spangled  with  coals  of  fire  ?  If 
he  was  to  descend,  why  not  in  state  ?  The  proof  of  the 
grandeur  of  this  Psalm,  is  in  the  fact  that  it  has  borne  the  test 
of  almost  every  translation,  and  made  doggerel  erect  itself,  and 
become  divine.  Even  Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  its  fiery  whirl- 
wind lifts  up,  purifies,  touches  into  true  power,  and  then  throws 
down,  helpless,  and  panting  upon  their  ancient  common. 

Perhaps  the  great  charm  of  the  18th  Psalm,  apart  from  the 
poetry  of  the  descent,  is  the  exquisite  and  subtile  alternation  of 
the  /  and  the  Thou.  We  have  spoken  of  parallelism,  as  the 
key  to  the  mechanism  of  Hebrew  song.  We  find  this  as  existing 
between  David  and  God — the  delivered,  and  the  deliverer — 


126  POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS. 

beautiful]}'-  pursued  throughout  the  whole  of  this  Psalm.  "  I 
will  love  thee,  O  Lord,  my  strength."  "I  will  call  upon  the 
Lord,  who  is  worthy  to  be  praised."  "  He  sent  from  above ; 
he  took  me  ;  he  drew  me  out  of  many  waters."  "Thou  wilt 
light  my  candle."  "  Thou  hast  given  me  the  shield  of  thy  sal- 
vation." "  Thou  hast  girded  me  with  strength  unto  battle." 
"  Thou  hast  given  me  the  necks  of  mine  enemies."  "  Thou 
hast  made  me  the  head  of  the  heathen."  The  Psalm  may  thus 
be  likened  to  a  stormy  dance,  where  we  see  David  dancing,  not 
now  before,  but  by  the  side  of,  the  Majesty  on  high.  It  has 
been  ingeniously  argued,  that  the  existence  of  the  /  suggests, 
inevitably  as  a  polar  opposite,  the  thought  of  the  Thou^  that 
the  personality  of  man,  proves  thus  the  personality  of  God  ; 
but,  be  this  as  it  may,  David's  perception  of  that  personality  is 
nowhere  so  intense  as  here.  He  seems  not  only  to  see,  but  to 
feel  and  touch,  the  object  of  his  gratitude  and  worship. 

We  must  not  omit  the  104th  Psalm,  although  not  probably 
from  David's  pen.  It  is  said  by  Humboldt  to  present  a  pic- 
ture of  the  entire  Cosmos ;  and  he  adds — "  We  are  astonished 
to  see,  within  the  compass  of  a  poem  of  such  small  dimensions, 
the  universe,  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  drawn  with  a  few 
grand  strokes."  Its  touches  are  indeed  fevi',  rapid — but  how 
comprehensive  and  sublime  !  Is  it  God  ? — he  is  "clothed  with 
hght  as  with  a  garment,"  and  when  he  takes  his  morning  or 
his  evening  walk,  it  is  on  the  "  wings  of  the  wind."  The  winds 
or  lightnings  ? — they  are  his  messengers  or  angels  :  "  Stop  us 
not,"  they  seem  to  say,  "  the  King's  business  requireth  haste." 
The  waters  ? — the  poet  shows  them  in  flood,  covering  the  face 
of  the  earth,  and  then  as  they  now  lie,  inclosed  within  their 
embankments,  to  break  forth  no  more  forever.  The  springs  ? 
— he  traces  them,  by  one  inspired  glance,  as  they  run  among 
the  hills,  as  they  give  drink  to  the  wild  and  lonely  creatures 
of  the  wilderness,  as  they  nourish  the  boughs  on  which  sing 
the  birds,  the  grass  on  which  feed  the  cattle,  the  herb,  the 
corn,  the  olive-tree,  and  the  vine,  which  fill  the  mouth,  cheer 
the  heart,  and  radiate  round  the  face  of  man.     Then  he  skims 


POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS.  127 

Tv'ith  bold  wing  all  lofty  objects — the  trees  of  the  Lord  on 
Lebanon,  "full  of  sap" — the  fir-trees  and  the  storks  which  are 
upon  them — the  high  hills,  with  their  wild  goats — and  the 
rocks,  with  their  conies.  Then  he  soars'  up  to  the  heavenlj'- 
bodies — the  sun  and  the  moon.  Then  he  spreads  abroad  his 
wings  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  which  "hideth  not  from 
him,"  and  hears  the  beasts  of  the  forest  creeping  abroad  to 
seek  their  prey,  and  the  roar  of  the  lions  to  God  for  meat, 
coming  up,  vast  and  hollow,  like  embodied  sound,  upon  the 
winds  of  midnight.  Then,  as  he  sees  the  shades  and  the  wild 
beasts  fleeing  together,  in  emulous  haste,  from  the  presence  of 
the  morning  sun,  and  man,  strong  and  calm  in  its  light  as  in 
the  smile  of  God,  hieing  to  his  labor,  he  exclaims,  "O  Lord, 
how  manifold  are  thy  works!  in  wisdom  hast  thou  made  them 
all !"  He  casts  next  one  look  at  the  ocean — a  look  glancing 
at  the  ships  which  go  there,  at  the  leviathan  which  plays 
there;  and  then,  piercing  down  to  the  innumerable  creatures, 
small  and  great,  which  are  found  below  its  unlifted  vail  of 
waters.  He  sees,  then,  all  the  beings,  peopling  alike  earth  and 
sea,  waiting  for  life  and  food  around  the  table  of  their  Divine 
Master — nor  waiting  in  vain — till,  lo !  he  hides  his  face,  and 
they  are  troubled,  die,  and  disappear  in  chaos  and  night.  A 
gleam,  next,  of  the  great  resurrections  of  nature  and  of  man 
comes  across  his  eye.  "  Thou  sendest  forth  thy  Spirit,  they 
are  created,  and  thou  renewest  the  face  of  the  earth."  But  a 
greater  truth  still  succeeds,  and  forms  the  climax  of  the  Psalm 
— (a  truth  Humboldt,  with  all  his  admiration  of  it,  notices  not, 
and  which  gives  a  Christian  tone  to  the  whole) — "  The  Lord 
shall  rejoice  in  his  works."  He  contem{)lates  a  yet  more  per- 
fect Cosmos.  He  is  "  to  consume  sinners"  and  sin  "  out  of"  this 
fair  universe :  and  then,  when  man  is  wholly  worthy  of  his 
dwelling,  shall  God  say  of  both  it  and  him,  with  a  yet  deeper 
emphasis  than  when  he  said  it  at  first,  and  smiling,  at  the  same 
time,  a  yet  warmer  and  softer  smile,  "It  is  very  good."  And 
with  an  ascription  of  blessing  to  the  Lord  does  the  poet  close 
^this  almost  angelic  descant  upon   the   works   of  nature,   the 


12'8  POETRY  OF  THE  BOOK  OF  PSALMS. 

glory  of  God,  and  the  prospects  of  man.  It  is  not  merely  the 
unity  of  the  Cosmos  that  he  has  displayed  in  it,  but  its  pro- 
gression, as  connected  with  the  parallel  progress  of  man — its 
thorough  dependence  on  one  Infinite  Mind — the  "increasing 
purpose"  which  runs  along  it — and  its  final  purification,  when 
it  shall  blossom  into  the  "  bright  consummate  flower"  of  the 
new  heavens  and  the  new  earth  "  wherein  dwelleth  righteous- 
ness ;" — this  is  the  real  burden,  and  the  pecuhar  glory  of  the 
104th  Psalm. 

We  must  not  linger  longer  among  those  blessed  Psalms, 
whether  those  of  David,  or  those  composed  in  later  times,  else 
we  could  have  dilated  with  delight  upon  the  noble  19th,  where 
the  sun  of  the  world,  and  the  law  of  God,  his  soul's  sun,  are 
bound  together  in  a  panegyric,  combining  the  glow  of  the  one 
and  the  severe  purity  of  the  other ;  upon  the  22d,  which  some 
suppose  Christ  to  have  chanted  entire  upon  the  cross  ;  upon  the 
24th,  describing  the  entrance  of  the  King  of  Glory  into  his 
sanctuary ;  upon  the  Penitential  Psalms,  coming  to  a  dreary 
climax  in  the  51st;  upon  such  descriptive  and  poetic  strains 
as  the  65th ;  upon  the  prophetic  power  and  insight  of  the  '72d 
and  the  2d ;  and  on  the  searching  self-communings,  and  the 
spirit  of  gentleness,  humility,  and  love  for  God's  word,  which 
distinguish  the  whole  of  the  119th.  But,  perhaps,  finer  than 
all,  are  those  little  bursts  of  irrepressible  praise,  which  we  find 
at  the  close.  During  the  course  of  the  book,  you  had  been 
conducted  along  very  diversified  scenes ;  now  beside  green  pas- 
tures, now  through  dark  glens,  now  by  still  waters,  now  by 
floods,  and  now  by  dismal  swamps,  now  through  the  silent 
wilderness,  where  the  sun  himself  was  sleeping  on  his  w^atch- 
tower — ^in  sympathy  with  the  sterile  idleness  below  ;  and  now- 
through  the  bustle  and  blood  of  battle-fields,  where  the  elements 
seemed  to  become  parties  in  the  all-absorbing  fury  of  the  fray ; 
but,  at  last,  you  stand  beside  the  Psalmists,  upon  a  clear,  com- 
manding eminence,  whence  looking  back  on  the  way  they  had 
been  led,  forward  to  the  future,  and  up  to  their  God,  now  no 
longer  hiding  himself  from  his  anointed  ones,  they  break  into 


POETRY    OF   THE   BOOK    OF   PSALMS.  129 

peans  of  praise ;  and  not  satisfied  with  their  own  orisons,  call 
on  ail  objects,  above,  around,  and  below,  to  join  the  hymn,  be- 
come, and  are  worthy  of  becoming,  the  organs  of  a  universal 
devotion.  The  last  six  or  seven  psalms  are  the  Beulah  of  the 
book  ;  there  the  sun  shineth  night  and  day,  and  the  voice  of 
the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land.  From  a  reflection  of  their  fire, 
have  sprung  the  hymn  which  Milton  ascribes  to  our  first  pa- 
rents, the  hymn  which  closes  the  "  Seasons,"  and  the  great 
psalm  v/hich  swelled  from  the  harp  of  Coleridge,  as  he  struck  it 
to  the  music  of  the  Arveiron,  and  in  the  light  of  the  morning 
star.  And  surely  those  bright  gushes  of  song,  occurring  at  the 
close,  unconsciously  typify  the  time  when  man,  saved  from  all 
his  wanderings,  strengthened  by  his  wrestlings,  and  recovered 
from  his  falls,  shall,  clothed  in  white  robes,  and  standing  in  a 
regenerated  earth,  as  in  a  temple,  pour  out  floods  of  praise, 
harmonizing  with  the  old  songs  of  heaven — when  the  nations, 
as  with  one  voice,  shall  sing — 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord.     God's  praise  within 
His  sanctuary  raise  ; 
And  to  him  in  the  firmament 
Of  his  pow'r  give  ye  praise. 
Because  of  all  his  mighty  acts, 

^  "With  praise  him  magnify : 
O  praise  him,  as  he  doth  excel 
In  glorious  majesty. 

Praise  him  with  trumpet's  sound ;  his  praise 

With  psaltery  advance : 
"With  timbrel,  harp,  string'd  instruments, 

And  organs,  in  the  dance. 
Praise  him  on  cymbals  loud  :  him  praise 

On  cymbals  sounding  high. 
Let  each  thing  breathing  praise  the  Lord. 

Praise  to  the  Lord  give  ye." 


CHAPTEE    VIII. 

SOLOMON  AND   HIS   POETRY. 

We  have  alread}''  glanced  at  some  of  the  aspects  of  this 
great  man's  character ;  but  that,  both  as  a  man,  and  as  a  wri- 
ter, is  far  too  magnificent  and  peculiar,  not  to  demand  a  chap- 
ter to  itself. 

Magnijicence  is,  indeed,  the  main  quality  of  Israel's  "  Grand 
Monarque,"  as  Coleridge  calls  him.  The  frequent  sublimity, 
and  the  fluctuating  interest,  which  surrounded  his  father's 
career,  he  possessed  not.  But  the  springtide  of  success  which 
was  his  history,  the  abundance  of  his  peace,  his  inexhaustible 
wealth,  the  pomp  of  his  establishment,  the  splendor  of  the 
house  and  the  temple  which  he  built,  the  variety  of  his  gifts 
and  accomplishments,  the  richness  and  diversified  character  of 
his  writings,  and  the  manifold  homage  paid  him  by  surrounding 
tribes  and  monarchs,  all  proclaimed  him  "  every  inch  a  king," 
and  have  rendered  "  Solomon  and  his  glory,"  proverbial  to  this 
hour.  He  sat,  too,  in  the  center  of  a  wide-spread  commerce, 
bringing  in  its  yearly  tribute  of  wealth  to  his  treasury,  and  of 
fame  to  his  name.  Even  when  he  sinned,  it  was  with  a  high 
hand,  on  a  large  scale,  and  with  a  certain  regal  gusto  ;  he  did 
not,  like  common  sinners,  sip  at  the  cup  of  corruption,  but 
drank  of  it,  "  deep  and  large,"  emptying  it  to  the  dregs.  When 
satiety  invaded  his  spirit,  that,  too,  was  of  a  colossal  character, 
and,  for  a  season,  darkened  all  objects  with  the  shade  of 
"  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit."  And  when  he  suffered,  his 
groans  seemed  those  of  a  demigod  in  torment ;  his  head  be- 
came waters,  and  his  eyes  a  fountain  of  tears.     ThusJ  on  all  his 


SOLOMON    AND    HIS    POETRY.  131 

sides,  bright  or  black,  he  was  equally  and  roundly  great.  Like 
a  pyramid,  the  shadow  he  cast  in  one  direction,  was  as  vast  as 
the  light  he  received  on  the  other. 

No  monarch  in  history  can  be  compared,  on  the  whole,  with 
Solomon.  Fj'om  the  Nebuchadnezzars,  the  Tamerlanes,  and 
similar  "  thunderbolts  of  war,"  he  differs  in  kind,  as  well  as  in 
degree.  lie  was  the  peaceful  temple — they  were  the  armed 
towers;  his  wisdom  was  greater  thnn  his  strength — they  were 
sceptred  barbarians,  strong  in  their  military"  prowess.  In  ac- 
complishments, and  in  the  combination  of  good  sense  with  ge- 
nius, he  reminds  us  of  Julius  Cossar;  but  he,  too,  was  a  man  of 
war  from  his  youth,  besides  being  guilty  of  ciimes  both  against 
his  country  and  his  own  person, "^^  blacker  far  than  any  recorded 
of  the  proverbialist  of  Israel  ; — a  union,  let  us  rather  call  hira, 
of  some  of  the  qualities  of  the  "  good  Haroun  Alraschid,"  with 
some  of  those  of  our  own  Alfred  the  Great.  To  the  oriental 
grandeur — the  love  of  peace,  poetry,  and  pleasure  which  dis- 
tinguished the  caliph — he  added  the  king's  sense  of  justice,  and 
homely,  practical  wisdom. 

It  was  his  first  to  prove  to  the  world  that  peaoe  has  greater 
triumphs,  and  richer  glories,  than  war.  All  the  useful,  as  well 
as  elegant  arts  found  in  him  at  once  a  pattern  and  a  patron. 
He  collected  the  floating  wisdom  of  his  country,  after  having 
intermingled  it  with  his  own,  into  compact  shape.  He  framed 
a  rude  and  stuttering  science,  beautiful,  doubtless,  in  its  sim- 
plicity, when  he  "  spake  of  all  manner  of  trees,"  from  the  cedar 
to  the  hyssop.  He  summoned  into  being  the  power  of  com- 
merce, and  its  infant  feats  were  mighty,  and  seemed,  in  that 
day,  magical.  He  began  to  bind  hostile  countries  together  by 
the  mild  tie  of  barter — a  lesson  which  mio^ht  have  been  tauo-ht 
him,  in  the  forest  of  Lebanon,  by  the  interchange  between  the 
"gold  clouds  metropolitan"  above,  and  the  soft  valleys  of  Eden 
below.  He  built  palaces  of  new  and  noble  architecture ;  and 
although  no  pictures  adorned  the  gates  of  the  temple,  or  shone 
above  the  altar  of  incense,  or  met  the  eyes  of  the  thousands  who 
*  See  Suetonius. 


132  SOLOMON   AND    HIS   POETRY. 

worshiped  within  the  court  of  the  Gentiles,  yet  was  not  that 
temple  itself — with  its  roof  of  nciarble  and  gold,  its  flights  of 
steps,  its  altars  of  steaming  incense,  its  cherubic  shapes,  its 
bulls  and  molten  sea — one  picture,  painted  on  the  canvas  of 
the  city  of  Jerusalem,  with  the  aid  of  the  hand  which  had 
painted  long  before  the  gallery  of  the  heavens  ?  In  poetry,  too, 
he  excelled,  without  being  so  filled  and  transported  by  its  power 
as  his  father ;  and,  as  with  David,  all  his  accomplishments  and 
deeds  were,  during  the  greater  part  oi  his  life,  dedicated  to,  and 
accepted  by,  heaven. 

Such  is  an  outline  of  his  efforts  for  the  advancement  of  his 
country.  Amid  them  all,  the  feature  which  most  exalts,  and 
most  likens  him  to  Jesus,  is  the  peace  of  his  reign.  It  was  this 
which  entitled  him  to  build  the  temple  ;  it  is  this  which  casts 
a  certain  soft  green  light,  like  the  light  of  the  rainbow,  around 
his  glory;  and  it  is  this  which  directs  every  Christian  eye 
instantly  to  a  ^'  greater  than  Solomon,"  in  the  promised  peace 
and  blessedness  which  the  7 2d  Psalm  predicts  as  the  results 
of  the  reign  of  David's  son.  The  gorgeous  Solomon,  and  the 
humble  Jesus,  wear  one  badge — the  white  rose  of  peace  ;  the 
one  above  his  crown  of  gold,  and  the  other  anoid  his  crown  of 
thorns. 

Every  man  has  a  dark  period  in  his  career,  whether  it  is  pub- 
licly known  or  concealed,  whether  the  man  outlive  or  sink  be- 
fore it.  Solomon,  too,  had  his  "  hour  and  power  of  darkness." 
Stern  justice  forbids  us  to  wink  at  its  principal  cause.  It  was 
luxury,  aggravated  into  sin.  Fullness  of  bread,  security,  splen- 
dor, wealth,  like  many  suns  shining  at  once  upon  his  head, 
enfeebled  and  corrupted  a  noble  nature.  Amid  the  mazy  dances 
of  strange  women,  he  was  whirled  away  into  the  embrace  of 
demon  gods.  He  polluted  the  simpHcity  of  the  service  he  had 
himself  established.  He  rushed  headlong  into  many  a  pit, 
which  he  had  himself  pointed  out,  till  "  Wisdom"  refused  to  be 
"justified"  of  this  her  chosen  child.  Sorrow  trod  faithfully 
and  fast  in  his  track  of  sin.  Luxury  begat  listlessness,  and  this 
listlessness  began  soon  to  burn,  a  still  slow  fire,  about  his  heart. 


SOLOMON    AND    HIS    POETRY.  133 

His  misery  became  wonderful,  passing  the  woe  of  man  ;  the 
more,  as  in  the  obscuration  of  his  great  hght,  enemies,  hke 
birds  obscene  and  beasts  of  darkness,  began  to  stir  abroad.  The 
general  opinion  of  the  Church,  founded  upon  the  Book  of  Ec- 
clesiastes,  is,  that  he  repented  and  forsook  his  sins  before  death. 
Be  this  true  or  not,  the  history  of  his  fall  is  equally  instructive. 
The  pinnacle  ever  overhangs  the  precipice.  Any  great  dispro- 
portion between  gifts  and  graces,  renders  the  former  fatal  as  a 
knife  is  to  the  suicide,  or  handwriting  to  the  forger.  We  ar- 
dently hope  that  Solomon  became  a  true  penitent.  But,  though 
he  had  not,  his  writings,  so  far  from  losing  their  value,  would 
gain  new  force ;  the  figure  of  their  fallen  author  would  form 
a  striking  frontispiece,  and  their  solemn  warnings  would  re- 
ceive an  amen,  as  from  the  caves  of  perdition.  A  slain  Solo- 
mon ! — since  fell  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning,  what  more  im- 
pressive proof  of  the  power  of  evil  ?  And,  like  him,  he  would 
seem  majestic,  though  in  "  ruins" — not  "  less  than  archangel 
ruined,  and  the  excess  of  glory  obscured."  Alas  !  is  it  not  still 
often  so  in  life  ?  Do  you  not  often  see  beings — whom,  for  their 
powers,  accomplishments,  or  charms,  you  must  almost  worship 
— on  whom  the  sun  looks  with  fonder  and  more  lingering  ray — 
attracting,  by  their  fatal  beauty,  the  dark  powers,  and  becoming 
monuments  of  folly,  or  miracles  of  woe  ?  Is  there  not  what  we 
must  in  our  ignorance  call  a  mysterious  envy,  in  the  universe, 
which  will  not  allow  the  beautiful  to  become  the  perfect,  nor 
the  strong  the  omnipotent,  nor  the  lofty  to  reach  the  clouds  ? 
That  ENVY  (if  we  dare  use  the  word)  is  yet  unsj^ent  ;  and  other 
mighty  shades,  hurled  down  into  destruction,  may  be  doomed 
to  hear  their  elder  brethren,  from  Lucifer  to  Byron,  raising  the 
thin  shriek  of  gloomy  salutation,  "Are  ye  also  become  weak  as 
we  ?"  as  they  follow  them  into  their  cheerless  regions. 

With  a  bound  of  gladness,  we  pass  from  the  dark,  uncertain 
close  of  Solomon's  hfe,  to  his  works  and  genius.  In  these  he 
exhibits  himself  in  three  aspects — a  poetical  proverbialist,  a 
poetical  inquirer,  and  a  poetical  lover ;  the  first,  in  his  Proverbs 
— the  second,  in  the  Book  of  Ecclesiastes — and  the  third,  in  the 


134  SOLOMON    AND    HIS    POETRY. 

Sono-  of  Songs.  But,  in  all  three,  you  see  the  true  soul  of  a 
poet — understanding  poet  in  that  high  sense  in  which  the  great- 
est poet  is  the  wisest  man. 

David  was  essentially  a  lyrical,  Solomon  is  a  combination  of 
the -didactic  and  descriptive  poet.  His  pictures  of  folly,  and 
his  praises  of  wisdom,  prove  his  didactic ;  many  scenes  in  the 
Song,  and,  besides  others,  his  picture  of  old  age  in  Ecclesiastes, 
— his  descriptive  powers.  His  fire,  compared  with  David's,  is 
calm  and  glowing — a  guarded  furnace,  not  a  flame  tossed  by 
the  wind ;  his  flights  are  fewer,  but  they  are  as  lofty,  and  more 
sustained.  With  less  fii-e,  he  has  more  figure ;  the  colors  of 
his  style  are  often  rich  as  the  humming-bird's  wing,  and  pro- 
claim, at  once,  a  later  age,  and  a  more  voluptuous  fancy.  The 
father  has  written  hymns  which  storm  the  feelings,  melt  the 
heart,  rouse  the  devotion,  of  multitudes ;  the  son  has  painted 
still  rich  pictures,  which  touch  the  imaginations  of  the  solitary 
and  the  thoughtful.  The  one,  though  a  great,  can  hardly  be 
called  a  wise  poet ;  the  other,  was  the  poet-sage  of  Israel — his 
imagination  and  intellect  were  equal,  and  they  interpenetrated. 

The  Proverbs  appear  to  have  been  collected  by  him,  with 
many  important  additions,  into  their  present  form.  A  few 
others  were  annexed  afterward.  They  now  he  before  us,  a 
massive  collection  of  sententious  truths,  around  which  Solomon 
has  hung  illustrations,  consisting  of  moral  paintings,  and  of 
meditative  flights. 

We  liave  first  the  material,  or  Proverbs  proper.  A  proverb 
may,  perhaps,  be  best  defined  a  common-sense  truth,  condensed 
in  a  sentence,  and  sealed  or  starred  with  an  image.  It  was 
certainly  a  fine  conception,  that  of  curdling  up  the  common 
sense  of  mankind  into  pleasing  and  portable  form — of  driving 
the  flocks  of  loose,  wandering  thoughts  from  the  wide  common 
into  the  penfolds  of  proverbs.  Proverbs  have  been  compared 
to  the  flights  of  oracular  birds.  They  tell  great  general  truths. 
They  show  the  same  principles  and  passions  to  have  operated 
in  every  age,  and  prove  thus  the  unity  of  man.  They  engrave, 
unintentionally,  ancient  manners  and  customs ;   and  serve  as 


•SOLOMON    AND    HIS    TOETRT.  135 

medals,  as  well  as  maxims.  Like  fables,  they  convey  truth  to 
the  young  with  all  the  freshness  and  the  force  of  fiction.  In  tho 
concipjirative  richness  or  meagerness  of  a  nation's  proverbs,  may 
be  read  much  of  its  intellect  and  character ;  indeed,  Fletcher's 
saying  about  the  songs  of  a  country,  may  be  transferred  to  its 
proverbs,  they  are  better  than  its  laws ;  nay,  they  are  its  laws 
— not  the  less  powerful  that  they  are  not  confined  to  statute- 
books,  but  wander  from  tongue  to  tongue  and  hearth  to  hearth. 
The  Proverbs  proper,  in  Solomon's  collection,  are  not  only  rich 
in  truth,  but  exceedingly  characteristic  of  the  Jewish  people, 
and  of  those  early  ages.  The  high  tendencies  of  the  Hebrew 
mind — its  gravity,  its  austerity,  its  constant  recognition  of 
justice  as  done  now,  its  identification  of  evil  with  error  ("  Do 
not  they  err  that  devise  evil  ?"),  of  crime  with  folly,  and  the 
perpetual  up-rushing  reference  to  Deity  as  a  near  Presence — 
are  nowhere  more  conspicuous  than  here.  The  truth  inscribed 
in  them  is  rarely  abstract  or  transcendental — towering  up  to 
God,  on  the  one  hand,  in  the  shape  of  worship,  it  is  always 
seeking  entrance  into  man,  on  the  other,  in  the  form  of  prac- 
tice. Yet  profound  as  wisdom  itself  are  many  of  its  sentences. 
"  Man's  goings  are  of  the  Lord ;  how  can  a  man  then  under- 
stand his  own  way  ?"  "  Stolen  waters  are  sweet,  and  bread 
eaten  in  secret  is  pleasant."  "  The  spirit  of  man  is  the  candle 
of  the  Lord."  "Thes  righteous  wisely  considereth  the  house  of 
the  wicked."  "  A  merry  heart  doetli  good  like  a  medicine  ;  but 
a  broken  spirit  drieth  the  bones."  "  The  desire  of  the  slothful 
killeth  him."  "  Open  rebuke  is  better  than  secret  love."  Let 
those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  regarding  the  Proverbs  as  a  mass 
of  truisms,  ponder  such,  and  many  similar  sentences.  AVe  find 
all  that  is  valuable  in  Emerson's  fam.ous  essays  on  "  Compensa- 
tion" and  "  Spiritual  Laws,"  contained  in  two  or  three  of  those 
old  abrupt  sentences,  which  had  perhaps  floated  down  from  be- 
fore the  flood.  The  imagery  in  which  they  are  enshrined,  has 
a  homely,  quaint  richness,  and  adds  an  antique  setting  to  these 
"ancient  most  domestic  ornaments." 

Around  such  strong  simplicities,  rescued  from  the  wreck  of 


136  SOLOMON    AND    HIS   POETRY. 

ages,  the  genius  of  Solomon  has  suspended  certain  pictures  and 
meditations,  indubitably  all  his  own.  Not  only  do  they  stand 
out  from,  and  above  the  rest  of  the  book — not  only  are  they  too 
lengthy  to  have  been  preserved  by  tradition,  but  they  bear  the 
mark  of  his  munificent  and  gorgeous  mind.  Some  of  them  are 
moral  sketches,  such  as  those  of  the  simple  youth,  in  the  Yth 
chapter — of  the  strange  woman,  in  the  9th — of  the  drunkard 
and  glutton,  in  the  23d — and  of  the  virtuous  woman,  in  the 
21st — sketches  reminding  you,  in  their  fullness,  strength,  and 
fidelity,  of  the  master-pieces  of  Hogarth,  who  had  them  avowedly 
in  his  eye ;  others  are  pictures  of  natural  objects,  looking  in 
amid  his  moralizings  as  sweetly  and  refreshingly  as  roses  at 
the  open  window  of  a  summer  school-room.  Such  we  find  at 
the  close  of  the  27th  chapter — "Be  thou  diligent  to  know  the 
state  of  thy  flpcks,  and  look  well  to  thy  herds.  The  hay  ap- 
peareth,  and  the  tender  grass  showeth  itself,  and  herbs  of  the 
mountains  are  gathered  ;  the  lambs  are  for  thy  clothing,  and  the 
goats  are  the  price  (or  rent)  of  the  field.  And  thou  shalt  have 
goats'  milk  enough  for  thy  food,  for  the  food  of  thy  household, 
and  for  the  maintenance  for  thy  maidens."  A  third  class  consists 
of  poetic  peans  in  praise  of  wisdom,  and  solemn  appeals  to 
those  who  reject  its  counsel,  and  will  none  of  its  reproof  The 
most  plaintive  of  these  occurs  in  the  first  chapter  of  the  book, 
and  forms  a  striking  motto  upon  its  opening  portals.  Scripture 
contains  no  words  more  impressive  than  Wisdom's  warning — 
"  Because  I  called,  and  ye  refused,  therefore  I  will  laugh  at 
your  calamity  ;  I  will  mock  when  your  fear  cometh — when  your 
destruction  cometh  as  a  whirlwind."  The  laughter  of  a  God  is 
a  tremendous  conception.  Suppose  the  lightning  a  ghastly 
smile,  and  the  after-thunder  a  peal  of  laughter  from  the  sky  at 
poor,  cowering  man  ;  what  a  new  horror  would  this  add  to  th« 
tragedy  of  the  storm,  and  yet  it  were  but  a  hieroglyphic  of  the 
irony  implied  in  Divine  derision  !  While  the  giants  were  pre- 
paring, with  labor  dire,  and  din  far  heard,  to  storm  the  skies, 
the  "gods,"  says  Paracelsus,  "  w^ere  calm;  and  Jove  prepared 
his  thunder — all  old  tales."     But,  in  the  hearing  of  the  Hebrew 


SOLOMON    AND    HIS   POETRY.  137 

poet,  while  the  kings  of  the  earth  are  plotting  against  the 
Lord  and  his  anointed,  a  laugh,  instead  of  thunder,  shakes  the 
heavens,  makes  the  earth  to  tremble,  and  explodes  in  a  moment 
the  long-laid  designs  of  the  enemj^,  ^vho  become  frantic  more  on 
account  of  the  contemptuous  mode,  than  the  completeness,  of  the 
destruction.  What  if  the  last  "  Depart,  ye  cursed  !"  were  to 
be  accompanied  by  celestial  laughter,  reverberated  from  the 
hoarse  caverns  of  hell  ? 

The  praise  and  personification  of  wisdom,  reach  Solomon's 
highest  pitch.  To  personify  an  attribute  well,  is  a  great 
achievement ;  to  sustain  "  strength,"  or  "  force,"  or  "  beauty," 
through  a  simile  or  an  apostrophe,  is  not  easy,  much  less  to 
supply  a  long  soliloquy  for  the  lips  of  Eternal  Wisdom.  Ma- 
caulay  has  coupled  Bunyan  and  Shelley  together,  as  masters  in 
the  power  of  glorifying  abstractions — of  painting  spiritual  con- 
ceptions in  the  colors  of  life ;  nay,  spoken  of  them  as  if  they 
had  been  the  first  and  greatest  in  the  art.  He  has  foi-gotten 
Eschylus,  and  those  strong  life-like  forms  who  aid  in  binding 
Prometheus  to  his  rock.  He  has  forgotten  Solomon's  Wisdom, 
who  stands  up  an  "  equal  among  mightiest  energies,"  and 
speaks  in  tones  so  similar  to,  that  he  has  often  been  supposed  one 
of,  the  Great  Three.  Hear  the  divine  egotist — "  When  he  pre- 
pared the  heavens,  /  was  there  ;  when  he  appointed  the  foun- 
dations of  the  earth,  /  was  by  him,  and  /  was  daily  his  delight : 
/was  set  up  from  everlasting."  As  inferior  only  to  Solomon 
in  making  metaphors  move,  and  flushing  the  pale  cheeks  of  ab- 
stract ideas,  we  name  Blake  and  David  Scott.  To  their  eyes, 
the  night  of  abstraction  was  clearer  than  the  day  ;  so-called 
dreams  appeared,  and  were  realities.  They  saw  the  sun  stand- 
ing still ;  they  felt  the  earth  revolving;  to  them,  every  "isLand" 
of  appearance  had  fled  away,  and  the  mountains  of  convention- 
alism were  "  no  more  found." 

We  have  mentioned  the  author  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 
Interesting  in  itself,  that  work  is  so  also,  as  one  of  a  class 
of  writings  of  which  Ecclesiastes  was  the  first.  We  refer  to 
spiritual  autobiographies.      We  sigh  and  cry  in  vain  for   au 


138  SOLOMON    AND    HIS    POETRY. 

authentic  account  of  the  iiiner  life  of  Shakspeare,  or  Bacon, 
or  Buike  ;  but  \vq  have  that  (according  to  general  belief)  of 
Solomon,  that  of  Banyan,  and  that  of  a  nioderu  who  chooses  to 
entitle  himself  "  Sartor  Resartus."  It  were  curious,  aird  per- 
haps something  better  than  cuiious,  to  review  those  three  ear- 
nest histories  together.  Now,  what  tirst  strikes  us  about  them, 
is  their  great  similarity.  Three  powerful  minds,  at  the  distance 
of  ages,  in  the  most  diverse  ranks,  circumstances,  and  states  of 
society,  are  found,  in  different  dialects,  asking  the  question — 
"  What  shall  I  do  to  be  saved" — struggling  in  different  bogs 
of  the  same  "Slough  of  Despond" — trying  many  expedients  to 
be  rid  of  their  bui'dens,  and  at  length  finding  or  fancying  they 
have  found,  a  final  remedy.  It  is,  then,  the  mark  of  man  to 
wear  a  burden  ;  it  is  the  mark  of  the  highest  men  to  bear  the 
heaviest  burdens,  and  it  is  the  mark  of  the  brave  and  bravest 
men  to  struggle  most  to  be  free  from  them.  The  sun  of  the 
civilization  of  the  nineteenth  century,  only  shows  the  burden  in 
a  broader  light,  and  makes  the  struggle  against  it  more  con- 
spicuous, and  perhaps  more  terrible.  The  preacher  from  the 
throne,  and  the  preacher  from  the  tub,  utter  the  same  message ; 
in  all,  the  struggle  seems  made  in  good  faith — all  are  in  ear- 
nest— all  have  surrounded  their  researches  with  a  poetic  beauty, 
only  inferior  to  their  personal  interest,  and  all  seem  to  typify 
large  classes  of  cognate  minds. 

Their  difficulties,  however,  assume  diversity  of  form,  and 
eliminate  diversities  of  feeling.  Solomon's  weariness  is  not 
altogether,  though  it  is  in  part,  that  of  the  jaded  sensualist; 
its  root  hes  deeper.  It  is  the  contrast  between  the  grandeur 
of  the  human  mind,  and  the  shortness  of  human  life,  the  mean- 
ness of  earthly  things,  and  the  fi-ailty  of  the  human  frame,  that 
amazes  and  perplexes  him.  The  thought  of  such  a  being, 
surrounded  by  such  circumstances,  inhabiting  such  a  house, 
and  dismissed  only  into  the  gulf  of  death,  haunts  his  mind  like 
a  specter.  That  specter,  he  in  vain  seeks  to  reason  away — 
to  drown,  to  dissi})ate,  or  to  moralize  away,  to  outstare  with  a 
hardy  look,  to  bring  under  any  theory,  to  find  any  path  of  life 


SOLOMON    AXD    HIS    POETRY.  139 

where  it  is  not— still  it  rises  before  him,  embittering  his  food, 
shadowing-  his  wine-cup,  making  business  a  drudgery,  the  read- 
ing or  making  of  books  a  weariness,  and  j)leasure  a  refined 
torment.  Wild,  at  times,  with  uncertainty,  he  spm-ns  at  the 
very  distinctions  between  riglrt  and  wrong,  knowledge  and  ig- 
norance, and  prays  to  "  God  to  manifest  to  the  sons  of  men 
that  they  are  but  beasts"  (what  a  text  for  Swift !  nay,  are  not 
all  his  works  really  sermons  on  it  ?) ;  but,  -with  the  specter  re- 
jected on  them,  those  great  barriers  arise  again,  and  he  con- 
fesses, that  "  Wisdom  excelleth  folly,  as  far  as  light  excelleth 
darkness."  Death,  being  to  him  but  faintly  gilded  Avith  im- 
mortality, presents  little  prospect  of  relief.  And  thus  does  the 
wise,  w^ealthy,  and  gifted  king  toss  to  and  fro,  on  his  couch  of 
golden  fire,  and  the  Book  of  Ecclesiastes  is  simply  a  record  of 
the  uneasy  motions,  and  helpless  cries,  of  a  mind  as  vacant  as 
vast,  seeking  to  be  filled,  and  awakening  an  echo  only  of  the 
horse-leech's  cry,  "  Give,  give." 

In  Bunyan,  the  difficulty  is  rather  moral  than  intellectual. 
His  spirit  is  bowed,  under  a  sense  of  sin,  and  of  its  infinite,  end- 
less consequences.  He  is  humble,  as  if  all  hell  were  bound  up 
in  the  burden  -on  his  back.  "  How  shall  I  be  happy  on  earth  ?" 
is  Solomon's  question  ;  "  How  shall  I  cease  to  be  unhappy  here 
and  hereafter  ?"  is  Bunyan's.  Both  feel  themselves  miserable  ; 
but,  to  Bunyan's  mind,  his  misery  seems  more  the  result  of  per- 
sonal guilt,  than  of  the  necessary  limitations  of  human  life,  and 
of  the  human  understanding. 

In  Sartor,  we  have  great  doubt  and  darkness  expressed  in 
the  language  of  the  present  day.  But  it  is  not  so. much  his  per- 
sonal imperfecti<yn,  or  the  contrast  between  the  capacities  of  his 
soul  and  the  vanity  and  shortness  of  his  life,  which  aflfects  him, 
as  it  is  the  uncertainty  of  his  religious  creed.  Devoured  by  the 
religious  element,  as  by  central  fire,  the  faith  of  his  fathers  sup- 
plies, he  thinks,  no  adequate  fuel.  Unable  to  believe  it  fully, 
he  is  incapable  of  hating  or  of  striking  at  its  roots  ;  he  deems 
that  rottenness  has  withered  it;  but  is  it  not  still  the  old  elm- 
tree  under  which,  in  childhood,  he  sported,  mused,  and  prayed  ? 


140  SOLOMON    AND    IIIS    POETRY. 

No  other  shelter  or  sanctuary  can  he  find.  And  then,  in  wild, 
fierce,  yet  self-collected,  wanderings,  "  Gehenna  buckled  under 
his  calm  belt,"  he  walks  astray,  over  the  wilderness  of  this 
world,  seeking,  above  all  things,  after  rest ;  or  that  he  should 
awake,  and  find  his  pilgrimage,  indeed,  to  be  a  dream ! 

Thus  pass  on  the  three  notable  pilgrims — the  crowned  Solo- 
mon, the  bush-lipped  and  fiery-eyed  Baptist,  and  the  strong 
literary  Titan  of  this  age — each,  for  a  season,  carrying  his  hand, 
like  the  victims  in  Vathek,  upon  his  breast,  and  saying,  "  It 
burns."  All  attain,  at  last,  a  certain  peace  and  satisfaction. 
The  conclusion  of  Solomon's  whole  matter  is,  "  Fear  God,  and 
keep  his  commandments,  for  this  is  the  whole  duty  of  man." 
"  Here  is  one  solid  spot  amid  an  ocean  of  vexation,  of  uncer- 
tainty, of  contradiction,  and  of  vanity,  and  on  it  I  will  rest  ray 
weary  foot."  Bunyan,  a  poor,  burdened  sinner,  clings  to  the 
cross,  and  it  is  straightway  surrounded  by  the  shining  ones,  who 
come  from  heaven  to  heal  and  comfort  the  sufferer.  Sartor 
says,  "  I  am  not  meant  for  pleasure  ;  I  despise  it ;  happiness  is 
not  meant  for  me,  nor  for  man ;  but  I  may  be  blessed  in  my 
misery  and  darkness,  and  this  is  fiir  better."  All  those  results 
seem  beautiful,  in  the  light  of  the  tears  and  the  tortures 
through  which  they  have  been  reached.  All  are  sincere  and 
strong-felt.  But,  while  the  last  is  vague  and  unsupported  as  a 
wandering  leaf,  while  the  first  is  imperfect  as  the  age  in  which 
it  was  uttered,  the  second  is  secure  in  its  humility,  strong  in  its 
weakness,  has  ministered,  and  is  ministering,  comfort,  peace, 
and  hope — how  living  and  hfe-giving  to  thousands  ! — and  if  it 
fail— 

"  The  pillared  firmament  is  rottenness, 
And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble," 

We  leave  the  machinery,  the  meaning,  and  the  manners  of 
Solomon's  Song,  to  Charles  Taylor,  Pye  Smith,  and  other 
critics  ;  we  have  a  sentence  to  say  as  to  its  spirit  and  poetry. 
It  is  conceived  throughout  in  a  vein  of  soft  and  tender  feehng, 
and  sufiused  with  a  rich,  slumbrous  light,  like  that  of  a  July 


SOLOMON    AND    HIS    POETRY.  141 

afternoon,  tremblinjr  amid  beds  of  roses.     There  are  flowers. 


but  they  are  not  stirred,  but  fanned  by  the  winds  of  passion. 
The  winds  of  passion  themselves  are  asleep  to  their  own  music. 
The  figures  of  speech  are  love- sick.  The  dialogues  seem  carried 
on  in  whispers.  Over  all  the  scenery,  from  the  orchards  of 
pomegranates,  the  trees  of  frankincense,  and  the  fountains  of  the 
gardens,  to  the  lions'  dens,  and  the  mountains  of  the  leopards, 
there  rests  a  languor,  like  sunny  mist,  and  shines  "  the  bloom 
of  young  desire,  and  purple  light  of  love."  To  call  all  this  the 
eifect  of  an  oriental  climate  and  genius,  is  incorrect ;  for,  first, 
all  the  writings  in  Scripture  were  by  orientals ;  and,  secondly, 
we  find  certain  occidental  poems,  such  as  "  Romeo  and  Juliet," 
or  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  nearly  as  rich  as  the  Song.  We  must 
either  trace  it  to  some  sudden  impulse  given  to  the  imagination 
of  Solomon,  whether  by  spring  coming  before  her  time — or  ap- 
pearing in  more  than  her  wonted  beauty — or  flushing  over  the 
earth  with  more  than  her  wonted  spirit-like  speed — or  by  the 
access  of  a  new  passion,  which,  even  in  advanced  life,  makes  all 
things,  from  the  winter  in  the  blood  to  the  face  of  nature,  new 
and  fresh,  as  if  after  a  shower  of  sunny  rain  ;  or  we  may  trace 
it,  with  the  general  voice  of  the  church,  to  the  influence  of  new 
views  of  the  loveliness  of  Messiah's  character  and  of  his  future 
church,  around  whom,  as  if  hastily  to  pay  the  first-fruits  of  the 
earth's  homage  to  her  lord  and  his  bride,  cluster  in  here  all 
natural  beauties,  at  once  reflecting  their  image  and  multiplying 
their  splendors.  Solomon  might  have  had  in  his  eye  a  similar 
vision  to  that  afterward  seen  by  John  of  the  bride,  the  Lamb's 
wife,  coming  down  from  God  out  of  heaven ;  and  surely  John 
himself  never  described  his  vision  under  sweeter,  although 
he  has  with  sublimer,  images.  "  I  am  the  rose  of  Sharon,  and 
the  lily  of  the  valleys.  As  the  lily  among  thorns,  so  is  my  love 
among  the  daughters."  "  Who  is  she  that  looketh  forth  as  the 
morning,  fair  as  the  moon,  clear  as  the  sun,  and  terrible  as  an 
army  with  banners  ?" 

We  notice  in  this  poem  two  classes  of  descriptions — the  one 
of  persons,  the  other  of  natural  scenes — and  a  singular  contrast 


142  soLOMoisr  and  his  poetry. 

between  them.  Solomon's  description  of  persons  is,  in  general, 
gorgeous  to  exuberance.  Images,  from  artificial  and  from  nat- 
ural objects,  are  collected,  till  the  bride  or  bridegroom  is  decked 
"vvith  as  many  ornaments  as  a  summer's  landscape  or  a  winter's 
night  sky  ;  the  raven's  plumage  is  plucked  from^  his  wing,  the 
dove's  eye  is  extracted  from  its  socket,  perfumes  are  brought 
from  beds  of  spices,  and  lilies  led  drooping  out  of  their  low 
valleys — nay,  the  vast  Lebanon  is  himself  ransacked  to  garnish 
and  glorify  the  one  dear  image  ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  descrip- 
tion of  natural  scenes  is  simple  in  the  extreme,  yet  beaiitiful  as 
if  nature  were  describing  herself.  "  The  winter  is  past,  the  rain 
is  over  and  gone  ;  the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth ;  the  time 
of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is 
heard  in  our  land."  This  is  the  green  of  nature  looking  in 
amid  the  glare  of  passion.  We  have  here  love  first  exaggerat- 
ing the  object  beloved,  and  then  retiring  to  hide  her  blushes  of 
shame  amid  the  cool  leaves  of  the  garden. 

We  find,  in  Shakespeare,  a  similar  intermixture  of  natural  ob- 
jects with  23assionate  scenes,  and  a  similar  subdued  tone  in  their 
description.  It  is  not  that  he  does  this  for  the  sake  of  effect, 
nor  that  he  quails — he  merely  cools — before  nature.  The  nat- 
ural allusions  act  like  the  touch  of  female  affection,  laid  on  the 
red  brow  of  passion,  and  opening  the  fountain  of  tears.  His 
madmen,  hke  poor  Lear,  are  crowned  with  flowers  ;  his  castles 
of  gloom  and  murder  are  skimmed  by  swallows,  and  swaddled 
in  delicate  air ;  in  his  loneliest  ruins  lurk  wild  grasses  and  flow- 
ers, and  around  them  the  lightning  itself  becomes  a  crown  of 
glory. 

Regarding  the  question  as  to  the  Christmn  application  of  the 
Song,  as  still  a  moot,  and  as  a  non-essential  point,  we  forbear 
to  express  an  opinion  on  it.  As  a  love  dialogue,  colored  to  the 
proper  degree  with  a  sensuous  flush,  "  beautiful  exceedingly"  in 
its  poetry,  and  portraying  with  elegance,  ancient  customs,  and 
the  inextinguishable  principles  of  the  human  heart,  this  poem  is 
set  unalterably  in  its  own  niche.  It  has  had  many  commen- 
taries, but,  in  our  judgment,  the  only  writer  who  has  caught 


SOLOMON    AND    HIS    FOETRT.  143 

its  warm  and  glowing  spirit,  is  Samuel  Rutherford,  who  has  not, 
indeed,  written  a  commentary  upon  it,  but  whose  "  Letters"  are 
inspired  by  its  influence,  and  have  nearly  reproduced  all  its 
language.  Despite  the  extravagancies  with  which  they  abound, 
when  we  consider  the  heavenliness  of  their  spirit,  the  richness 
of  their  fancy,  the  daring,  yet  devout  tone  of  their  language, 
the  wrestling  earnestness  of  their  exercise,  their  aspirings  after 
the  Savior,  in  whom  the  -writer's  soul  often  sees  "  seven 
heavens,"  and  to  gain  whom,  he  would  burst  through  "  ten 
hells" — we  say,  blessings  and  perfumes  on  the  memory  of  those 
dungeons  whence  so  many  of  these  letters  came,  and  on  that  of 
their  rapt,  seraphic  author  whose  chains  have  been  "  glorious 
liberty  to  many  a  son  of  God."  The  soul  was  strong  wdaich 
could  spring  heaven-high  under  his  prison  load,  and  which  has 
made  the  cells  of  his  supposed  infamy  holy  and  haunted  ground, 
both  to  the  lovers  of  liberty  and  the  worshipers  of  God. 

It  is  with  a  certain  melancholy  that  we  dismiss  the  great 
monarch  of  Israel.  We  remember  once  feeling  a  strong  shud- 
der of  horror  at  hearing  an  insinuation  (we  believe  not  true)  that 
the  author  of  a  very  popular  and  awful  religious  poem,  was  not 
himself  a  pious  man.  It  was  one  of  those  assertions  which 
make  the  heart  quake,  and  the  hand  catch  convulsively  at  the 
nearest  object,  as  if  earth  were  sinking  below  us.  But  the 
thought  of  the  writer  of  a  portion  of  the  Bible  being  a  "  cast- 
away"— a  thought  entertained  by  some  of  repute  in  the  Chris- 
tian world — is  far  more  painful.  It  may  not,  as  we  have  seen, 
detract  from,  but  rather  add  to,  the  effect  of  his  writings ;  but 
does  it  not  surround  them  with  a  black  margin  ?  Does  not 
every  sentence  of  solemn  wisdom  they  contain,  seem  clothed 
in  mourning  for  the  fate  of  its  parent  ?  On  Solomon's  fate,  we 
dare  pronounce  no  judgment;  but,  even  granting  his  final  hap- 
l^iness,  it  is  no  pleasing  task  to  record  the  mistakes,  the  sins, 
the  sorrows,  or  even  the  repentance  of  a  being  originally  so 
noble.  If  at  "  evening  time  it  was  light"  with  him,  yet  did 
not  a  scorching  splendor  torment  the  noon,  and  did  not  thun- 
ders, melting  into  heavy  showers,  obscure  the  after-day  ?     The 


144  SOLOMON   AND    HIS    POETRY. 

"  glory  of  Solomon"  is  a  fearful  and  troubled  glory  :  how  dif- 
ferent from  the  meek  light  of  the  life  of  Isaac — most  blameless 
of  patriarchs — whose  history  is  that  of  a  quiet,  gray  autumnal 
day,  where,  with  no  sun  visible,  all  above  and  below  seems 
diluted  sunshine — a  day  as  dear  as  it  is  beautiful,  and  which 
dies  regretted,  as  it  has  lived  enjoyed ! 


CHAPTER    IX. 

mTRODUCTION  TO  THE  PROPHETIC  BOOKS. 

We  resign  to  other  writers — many  of  whom  are  so  well  com- 
petent for  it — the  task  of  disproving  the  theory  that  the  pro- 
jDhets  were  the  mere  rhythmic  historians  of  past  events — merely 
the  bards  of  their  country.  Indeed,  one  of  the  shrewdest  of 
German  critics,  De  Wette,  abandons  this  as  untenable,  and 
concedes  them  a  certain  foresight  of  the  futm-e,  although  he 
evidently  conceives  it  to  be  little  better  than  the  instinct  of  cats 
forecasting  rain,  or  of  vultures  scenting  carrion.  We  propose 
at  present  to  make  a  few  remarks  illustrative  of  the  prophetic 
office  among  the  Hebrews.  The  general  picture  of  a  prophet 
has  been  given  already. 

The  prophet,  first,  had  a  supernatural  gift.  That  this  was 
more  than  genius,  is  evident  from  the  terms  applied  to  it ;  the 
power  moving  them  is  always  a  moral  power  ;  it  is  the  "  Holy''^ 
Ghost — it  is  a  divine  power — "  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  is  upon 
them" — from  the  purposes  served  by  their  utterances,  which 
are  uniformly,  not  merely  artistic,  but  moral  and  spiritual — from 
the  objects  presented  to  their  view,  often  lying  hid  in  regions 
which  the  most  eagle-eyed  genius  were  unable  to  scan — and 
from  the  miraculous  circumstances  by  which  so  many  of  their 
messages  were  sealed.  That  this  supernatural  power  did  not 
interrupt^  though  it  elevated,  their  natural  faculties,  is  evident 
from  the  diversities  of  style  and  manner  which  are  found  not 
only  among  different  prophets,  but  in  diflferent  parts  of  the  same 
prophecy.  This  gift,  again,  operated  on  the  proi:)hets  in  divers 
manners.    Sometimes  God  visited  their  minds  by  silent  sugges- 

G 


146  INTRODUCTION   TO    THE   PROPHETIC    BOOKS. 

tion ;  sometimes  lie  spoke  to  tliem  as  lie  did  to  Samuel,  by  a 
voice ;  sometimes  the  prophet  fell  into  a  trance  or  day-dream, 
and  sometimes  God  instructed  him  through  a  vision  of  the  night ; 
sometimes  angelic  agency  was  interposed  as  a  medium,  and 
sometimes  God  directly  dawned  upon  the  soul ;  sometimes 
future  events  were  distinctly  predicted ;  sometimes  they  were 
adumbrated  in  figure ;  and  sometimes  counsel,  admonition,  and 
warning,  constituted  the  entire  "burden."  Language,  often 
creaking  under  the  load,  was  the  general  vehicle  for  the  pro- 
phetic message,  but  frequently,  too,  "  signs"  and  "  wonders" 
of  the  most  singular  description  were  employed  to  shadow  and 
to  sanction  it.  The  prophet,  who  at  one  time  only  smote  with 
his  hand,  stamped  with  his  foot,  or  cried  with  his  voice,  at 
another  prepared  stuff  for  removing,  or  besieged  a  tile,  or  mar- 
ried "  a  wife  of  whoredoms,"  to  symbolize  the  mode,  and  attest 
the  certainty,  of  approaching  events.  Bolder  upon  occasion  still, 
he  dared  to  stretch  forth  his  hand  to  the  wheel  of  nature,  and 
it  stopped  at  his  touch — to  call  for  fire  from  heaven,  and  it 
came  when  he  called  for  it. 

The  power  of  prophecy  was  fitful  and  intermitting :  in  this 
point,  resembling  genius.     It  was,  like  it, 


"  A  power  which  comes  and  goes  like  a  dream, 
And  which  none  can  ever  trace." 


In  the  fine  language  of  Hushai,  it  lighted  upon  the  prophet  as 
the  "  dew  falleth  upon  the  ground."  Rather,  it  came  upon  his 
head,  and  stirred  his  hair,  and  kindled  his  eye,  and  inflated  his 
breast,  as  a  gust  of  wind  comes  upon  a  pine,  for,  though  sud- 
den, its  advent  was  not  soft  as  the  dew.  It  was  a  nobler  de- 
moniac possession.  Recovered  from  it,  the  prophet  resumed 
his  ordinary  occupation,  and  was  a  common  man  once  more. 
Then,  too,  his  own  words  seemed  strange  to  him ;  he  wondered 
at  them,  as  we  can  conceive  the  f^ibled  oak  wondering  when  it 
had  sweltered  honey.  He  searched  what  the  Spirit  did  signify 
by  him,  nor  probably  was  he  always  successful  in  the  search. 


INTRODUCTION   TO    THE    PROPHETIC    BOOKS.  147 

Authors  of  mere  human  gift  are  often  surprised  at  their  own 
utterances.  Even  while  understanding  their  general  meaning, 
there  are  certain  shades,  certain  emphases,  a  prominence  given 
by  the  spirit  of  the  hour  to  some  thoughts  and  words,  which 
seem  to  them  unaccountable,  as  to  a  dreamer  his  converse,  or  his 
singing,  when  reviewed  by  the  light  of  day.  How  much  more 
must  the  prophet,  through  whom  passed  the  mighty  rushing 
wind  of  the  Divinity,  have  stared  and  trembled  as  he  recalled 
the  particulars  of  the  passage. 

Nor  was  this  transit  of  God,  over  the  prophetic  soul,  silent  as 
that  of  a  planet.  It  was  attended  by  great  bodily  excitement 
and  agony.  The  prophets  were  full  of  the  fury  of  the  Lord. 
The  Pythoness,  panting  upon  her  stool — Eschylus,  chased  be- 
fore his  inspiration,  as  before  his  own  Furies — Michael  Angelo, 
hewing  at  his  Moses,  till  he  was  surrounded  by  a  spray  of  stone 
— the  Ancient  Marinere,  wrenched  in  the  anguish  of  the  delivery 
of  his  tale — give  us  some  notion  of  the  Hebrew  prophet,  with 
the  burden  of  the  Lord  upon  his  heart  and  his  eye.  Strong  and 
hardy  men,  they  generally  were ;  but  the  wind  which  crossed 
them,  was  a  wind  which  could  "  rend  rocks,"  and  waft  tongues 
of  fire  upon  its  wings.  In  apprehension  of  its  effects,  on  both 
'body  and  spirit,  we  find  more  than  one  of  their  number  shrink- 
ing from  below  its  power.  It  passed  over  them,  notwithstand- 
ing, and,  perhaps,  an  under-current  of  strength  was  stirred 
within,  to  sustain  them  in  that  "celestial  colloquy  sublime." 
But  true  inspiration  does  no  injury,  and  has  no  drawback. 
Nectar  has  no  dregs. 

The  prophet,  thus  excited  and  inspired,  was  certain  to 
deliver  himself  in  figurative  language.  All  high  and  great 
thought,  as  we  have  intimated  before,  casts  metaphor  from  it, 
as  surely  as  substance  produces  shadow.  The  thought  of  the 
Hebrew  bard  had  come  from  heaven,  and  must  incarnate 
itself  in  earthly  similitudes,  or  remain  unuttered.  Figure,  in 
some  cases  a  luxury,  was  here  a  necessity  of  speech.  As  this 
thought,  besides,  was  destined  to  be  coeval  with  earth,  it  must 
be  expressed  in  that  universal  cipher  which  the  language  of 


148  INTRODUCTION   TO    THE   PROPHETIC    BOOKS. 

figure  alone  supplies.  It,  like  simliglit,  always  explains  and 
recommends  itself  to  every  one  who  has  eyes  to  see.  A  figure  on 
the  breast  of  a  truth,  is  like  a  flower  in  the  hand  of  a  friend. 
Hence,  its  language,  like  the  language  of  flowers,  is  free  of  the 
world  and  of  all  its  ages.  It  is  fine  to  see  the  genius  of  poetry 
stooping  to  do  the  tasks  of  the  prophetic  power.  Herself  a 
"  daughter  of  the  king,"  she  is  willing  to  be  the  handmaid  of 
her  elder  sister.  Instead  of  an  original,  she  is  content  to  be  the 
mere  translator,  into  her  own  everlasting  vernacular,  of  the 
oracles  of  heaven. 

This  singular  form — its  soul  the  truth  of  heaven — its  body 
the  beauty  of  earth — was  attached,  for  wisest  purposes,  to 
the  Jewish  economy.  It  acted  as  God's  spur,  suspended  by 
the  side  of  the  system,  as  it  moved  slowly  forward.  It  gave 
life  to  many  dead  services ;  it  mingled  a  nobler  element  with 
the  blood  of  bulls  and  goats ;  it  disturbed  the  dull  tide  of  na- 
tional degeneracy ;  it  stirred,  again  and  again,  the  old  flames  of 
Sinai ;  it  re- wrote,  in  startling  characters,  the  precepts  of  the 
moral  law ;  and,  in  its  perpetual  and  vivid  predictions  of  Mes- 
siah's coming,  and  death,  and  reign,  outshot  by  ages  the  testi- 
mony of  types,  rites,  and  ceremonies.  It  did  for  the  law  what 
preaching  has  done  for  the  Gospel :  it  supplied  a  living  sanction, 
a  running  comment,  and  a  quickening  influence.  When,  at  times, 
its  voice  ceased,  the  cessation  was  mourned  as  a  national  loss ; 
and  we  hear  one  of  Israel's  later  psalmists  complaining  that 
"  there  is  not  among  us  a  prophet  more."  And  this  not  that 
Asaph  lamented  that  there  was  none  to  sing  the  great  deeds  of  his 
country,  but  that  he  mourned  the  decay  of  the  piety  and  insight 
of  which  prophecy  had  been  the  "  bright  consummate  flower." 
In  truth,  prophecy  represented  in  itself  the  devotion,  the  in- 
sight, and  the  genius  of  the  land,  and  of  the  period  when  it  was 
poured  forth. 

This  power  was  su])jected  to  a  certain  culture.  Schools  of 
the  prophets  seem  to  have  been  first  established  by  Samuel. 
The  pupils  were  trained  up  in  a  knowledge  of  religion,  and  in 
habits  of  devotion.     These  schools   were  nurseries,  and  from 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PROPHETIC    BOOKS.  149 

them  God  miglit,  and  did,  choose,  from  time  to  time,  his  ap- 
pointed instruments.  Amos  seems  (vii.  14)  to  regard  it  as  a 
thing  uncommon,  that  though  he  was  a  prophet,  he  had  not  been 
trained  in  such  seminaries.  It  is  supposed  by  some,  that  those 
sons  of  the  prophets  were  employed  as  their  assistants,  and  stood 
in  the  relation  which  evangelists  afterward  bore  to  the  apostles. 
Lastly,  This  prophetic  vision,  centring  in  Christ,  became 
clearer  as  he  drew  near.  At  first  it  is  dim  ;  the  character  of 
the  person  is  but  partially  disclosed;  his  divinity  ghmmers 
faintly  on  the  view,  and  a  cloud  of  darkness  rests  on  his  pre- 
destined sufferings — on  that  perilous  "  bruising,"  by  which  he 
was  to  send  forth  judgment  unto  victory.  Gradually,  however, 
it  brightens  ;  the  particulars  of  his  mystic  agony  begin  to  flash 
on  the  view  of  the  prophets,  while,  at  the  same  time,  his  divine 
dignity  is  becoming  luminously  visible,  and  while  the  prospect 
of  the  triumphs,  consequent  on  his  death,  is  stirring  their  hearts 
to  rapture ;  and,  finally,  the  very  date  of  the  hour  and  power 
of  darkness  is  recorded,  the  place  of  his  birth  is  disclosed,  and 
his  coming  to  his  father's  temple  is  announced  in  thunder. 
Thus  did  the  "  spirit  of  prophecy"  bear  a  growing  testimony  to 
Jesus.  Thus  did  the  long-  line  of  the  prophets,  like  the  stars 
of  moraing,  shine  more  and  more,  till  they  yielded  and  melted 
in  the  Sun  of  Righteousness.  And  through  this  deepening 
and  enlarging  vision  it  was  that  the  Jewish  imagination,  and 
the  Jewish  heart,  were  prepared  for  his  coming.  The  proph- 
ets, kings  though  they  were,  over  their  own  economy,  were 
quite  ready  to  surrender  their  scepters  to  a  greater  than  they. 
Would  that  the  sovereigns,  statesmen,  poets,  and  philosophers 
of  the  present  age  were  equally  ready  to  cast  their  crowns  at 
the  feet  of  that  expected  One,  "  who  shall  come,  will  come,  and 
will  not  tarry." 


CHAPTER    X. 

ISAIAH,  JEREMIAH,  EZEKIEL,  DANIEL. 

ISAIAH. 

"  I  FELT,"  says  Sir  W.  Herschel,  "  after  a  considerable  sweep 
through  the  sky  with  my  telescope,  Sirius  announcing  himself 
from  a  great  distance ;  and  at  length  he  rushed  into  the  field 
of  view  with  all  the  brightness  of  the  rising  sun,  and  I  had  to 
withdraw  my  eyes  from  the  dazzling  object."  So  have  we, 
looking  out  from  our  "  specular  tower,"  seen  from  a  great  way 
oflf  the  approach  of  the  "mighty  orb  of  song" — the  divine 
Isaiah — and  have  felt  awe-struck  in  the  path  of  his  coming. 
He  was  a  prince  amid  a  generation  of  princes — a  Titan  among 
a  tribe  of  Titans  ;  and  of  all  the  prophets  who  rose  on  aspiring 
pinion  to  meet  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  it  was  his — the  Evan- 
gelical Eagle — to  mount  highest,  and  to  catch  on  his  wing  the 
richest  anticipation  of  his  rising.  It  was  his,  too,  to  pierce 
most  clearly  down  into  the  abyss  of  the  future,  and  become  an 
eye-witness  of  the  great  events  which  were  in  its  w^omb  in- 
closed. Ho  is  the  most  eloquent,  the  most  dramatic,  the  most 
poetic — in  one  word,  the  most  complete,  of  the  Bards  of  Israel. 
He  has  not  the  bearded  majesty  of  Moses — the  gorgeous  natural 
description  of  Job — Ezekiel's  rough  and  rapid  vehemence,  like 
a  red  torrent  from  the  hills  seeking  the  lake  of  Galilee  in  the 
day  of  storm- — David's  high  gusts  of  lyric  enthusiasm,  dying 
away  into  the  low  wailings  of  penitential  sorrow — Daniel's 
awful  allegory — John's  piled  and  enthroned  thunders;  his 
power  is  solemn,  sustained — at  once  measured  and  powerful ; 
his  step  moves  gracefully,  at  the  same  time  that  it  shakes  the 


ISAIAH.  151 

wilderness.  His  imagery,  it  is  curious  to  notice,  amid  all  its 
profusion,  is  seldom  snatched  from  the  upper  regions  of  the 
Ethereal — from  the  terrible  crystal,  or  the  stones  of  fire — from 
the  winged  cherubim,  or  the  eyed  wheels — from  the  waves  of 
the  glassy  sea,  or  the  blanched  locks  of  the  Ancient  of  Days  ; 
but  from  lower,  though  lofty  objects — ^from  the  glory  of  Leb- 
anon, the  excellency  of  Sharon,  the  waving  forests  of  Carmel, 
the  willows  of  Kedron,  the  flocks  of  Kedar,  and  the  rams  of 
Nebaioth.  Once  only  does  he  pass  within  the  vail — "  in  the 
year  that  King  Uzziah  died" — and  he  enters  trembling,  and 
he  withdraws  in  haste,  and  he  bears  out,  from  amid  the  surg- 
ing smoke  and  the  tempestuous  glory,  but  a  single  "  live  coal" 
from  off  the  altar.  His  prophecy  opens  with  sublime  complaint ; 
it  frequently  irritates  into  noble  anger,  it  subdues  into  irony, 
it  melts  into  pathos ;  but  its  general  tone  is  that  of  victorious 
exultation.  It  is  one  long  rapture.  You  see  its  author  stand- 
ing on  an  eminence,  bending  forward  over  the  magnificent  pros- 
pect it  commands,  and,  with  clasped  hands,  and  streaming  eyes, 
and  eloquent  sobs,  indicating  his  excess  of  joy.  It  is  true  of 
all  the  prophets,  that  they  frequently  seem  to  see  rather  than 
foresee,  but  especially  true  of  Isaiah.  Not  merely  does  his 
mind^verleap  ages,  and  take  up  centuries  as  a  "  little  thing ;" 
but  his  eye  overleaps  them  too,  and  seem  literally  to  see  the 
word  Cyrus  inscribed  on  his  banner — the  river  Euphrates 
turned  aside — the  Cross,  and  him  who'  bare  it.  We  have  little 
doubt  that  many  of  his  visions  became  objective,  and  actually 
painted  themselves  on  the  prophet's  eye.  Would  we  had  wit- 
nessed that  awful  eye,  as  it  was  piercing  the  depths  of  time — 
seeing  the  To  Be  glaring  through  the  thin  mist  of  the  Then  ! 

How  rapid  are  this  prophet's  transitions  !  how  sudden  his 
bursts  !  how  startling  his  questions !  how  the  page  appears  to 
live  and  move  as  you  read !  "  Who  are  these  that  fly  as  a 
cloud,  and  as  the  doves  to  their  windows  ?"  "  Who  is  this  that 
Cometh  from  Edom,  with  dyed  garments  from  Bozrah  ?"  "  Who 
bath  believed  our  report  V  "  Lift  ye  up  a  banner  upon  the  high 
mountain!"     "Awake,  awake,  put  on  thy  strength,  O  Zion ; 


152  ISAIAH. 

put  on  thy  beautiful  garments,  O  Jerusalem  !"  "  Ho  !  every  one 
that  thirsteth,  come  ye  to  the  waters  !"  He  is  the  divme  de- 
scriber  of  a  divine  panorama.  His  sermons  are  not  composi- 
tions, but  cries,  from  one  who  "  sees  a  sight  you  can  not  see,  and 
hears  a  voice  you  can  not  hear."  He  reahzes  the  old  name 
which  gradually  merged  in  that  of  prophet — "  seer."  He  is  the 
seer — an  eye  running  to  and  fro  throughout  the  future  :  and  as 
you  contemplate  him,  you  feel  what  a  power  was  that  sight  of 
the  olden  prophets,  which  pierced  the  thickest  vails,  found  the 
turf  thin  and  the  tombstone  transparent,  saw  into  the  darkness 
of  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  to  come — the  most  hidden  re- 
cesses of  the  human  heart — the  folds  of  Destruction  itself;  that 
sight  which,  in  Ezekiel,  bare  the  blaze  of  the  crystal  and  the 
eyes  of  the  wheels — which,  in  Daniel,  read  at  a  glance  the 
hieroglyphics  of  heaven — and  which,  in  John,  blenched  not 
before  the  great  white  throne.  Many  eyes  are  glorious  ;  that 
of  beauty,  with  its  mirthful  or  melancholy  meaning ;  that  of 
the  poet,  rolling  in  its  fine  frenzy ;  that  of  the  sage,  worn  with 
wonder,  or  luminous  with  mild  and  settled  intelligence  ;  but 
who  shall  describe  the  eye  of  the  prophet,  across  whose  mirror 
swept  the  shadows  of  empires,  stalked  the  ghosts  of  kings, 
stretched  in  their  lovehness  the  landscapes  of  a  regenerated 
earth,  and  lay,  in  its  terror,  red  and  still,  the  image* of  the 
judgment-seat  of  Almighty  God  ?  Then  did  not  sight — the 
highest  faculty  of  matter  or  mind — come  culminating  to  an  in- 
tense and  dazzhng  point,  trembling  upon  Omniscience  itself? 

Exultation,  we  have  said,  is  the  pervading  spirit  of  Isaiah's 
prophecy.  His  are  the  "  prancings  of  a  mighty  one."  Has  he 
to  tread  upon  idols  ? — he  not  only  treads,  but  tramples  and 
leaps  upon  them.  Witness  the  irony  directed  against  the  stock 
and  stone  gods  of  his  country,  in  the  44th  chapter.  Does 
he  describe  the  downfall  of  the  Assyrian  monarch  ? — it  is  to  the 
accompaniment  of  wild  and  hollow  laughter  from  the  depths  of 
Hades,  which  is  "  moved  from  beneath"  to  meet  and  welcome 
his  coming.  Great  is  his  glorying  over  the  ruin  of  Babylon. 
With  a  trumpet  voice  he  inveighs  against  the  false  fastings  and 


ISAIAH.  153 

other  superstitions  of  his  age.  As  the  panorama  of  the  millennial 
day  breaks  in  again  and  again  upon  his  eye,  he  hails  it  with  an 
unvaried  note  of  triumphant  anticipation.  Rarely  does  he  miti- 
gate his  voice,  or  check  his  exuberant  joy,  save  in  describing 
the  sufferings  of  Christ.  Here  he  shades  his  eyes,  holds  in  his 
eloquent  breath,  and  furls  his  wing  of  fire.  But,  so  soon  as  he 
has  passed  the  hill  of  sorrow,  his  old  rapturous  emotions  come 
upon  him  with  twofold  force,  and  no  pean,  in  his  prophecy, 
is  miore  joyous  than  the  54th  chapter.  It  rings  hke  a  marriage 
bell. 

The  true  title,  indeed,  of  Isaiah's  prophecy  is  a  "  song."  It 
is  the  "  Song  of  Songs,  which  is  Isaiah's,"  and  many  of  its  notes 
are  only  a  little  lower  than  those  which  saluted  the  birth  of 
Christ,  or  welcomed  him  from  the  tomb,  with  the  burden,  "  He 
is  risen,  he  is  risen,  and  shall  die  no  more  !" 

From  this  height  of  vision,  pitch  of  power,  and  fullness  of 
utterance,  Isaiah  rarely  stoops  to  the  tender.  He  must  sail 
on  in 

"  Supreme  dominion, 
Through  the  azure  deep  of  air." 

Yet,  when  he  does  descend,  it  is  gracefully.  "  Can  a  woman  for- 
get her  sucking  child,  that  she  should  not  have  compassion  on 
the  son  of  her  womb  ?  Yea,  they  may  forget ;  yet  I  will  not 
forget  thee."  Tears  in  the  eye  of  a  strong  man,  move  more 
than  all  other  human  tears.  But  here  are  tears  from  a  "  fire- 
armed  angel,"  and  surely  there  is  no  softness  like  theirs. 

The  uniform  grandeur,  the  pomp  of  diction,  the  almost  pain- 
ful richness  of  figure,  distinguishing  this  prophet,  would  have 
lessened  his  power  over  the  common  Christian  mind,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  evangelical  sentiment  in  which  his  strains  abound, 
and  which  has  gained  him  the  name  of  "  the  Fifth  Evangelist." 
Many  bear  with  Milton  solely  for  his  religion.  It  is  the  same 
with  Isaiah.  The  cross  stands  in  the  painted  window  of  his 
style.  His  stateliest  figure  bows  before  Messiah's  throne.  An 
eagle  of  the  sun,  his   nest  is  in  Calvar3^      Anticipating  the 


154  JEREMIAH. 

homage  of  tlie  Eastern  sages,  lie  spreads  out  before  the  infant 
God  treasures  of  gold,  frankincense,  and  myrrh.  The  gifts  are 
rare  and  costly,  but  not  too  precious  to  be  offered  to  such  a  be- 
ing ;  they  are  brought  from  afar,  but  he  has  come  farther  "  to 
seek  and  to  save  that  which  was  lost." 

Tradition — whether  truly  or  not,  we  can  not  decide — asserts 
that  698  years  before  Christ,  Isaiah  was  sawn  asunder.  Cruel 
close  to  such  a  career !  Harsh  reply,  this  sawing  asunder,  to 
all  those  sweet  and  noble  minstrelsies.  German  critics  have 
recently  sought  to  imitate  the  operation,  to  cut  our  present 
Isaiah  into  two.  To  halve  a  body  is  easy ;  it  is  not  quite  so 
easy  to  divide  a  soul  and  spirit  in  sunder.  Isaiah  himself  spurns 
such  an  attempt.  The  same  mind  is  manifest  in  all  parts  of  the 
prophecy.  Two  suns  in  one  sky  were  as  credible  as  two  such 
flaming  phenomena  as  Isaiah.  ISTo  !  it  is  one  voice  which  cries 
out  at  the  beginning,  "  Hear,  0  heavens,  and  give  ear,  0  earth" 
— and  which  closes  the  book  with  the  promise,  "  And  it  shall 
come  to  pass,  that  from  one  new  moon  to  another,  and  from 
one  Sabbath  to  another,  shall  all  flesh  come  and  worship  be- 
fore me,  saith  the  Lord." 


JEREMIAH. 

Criticism  is  never  so  unjust,  as  when,  while  exaggerating 
one  undoubted  merit  in  a  writer,  she  denies  him  every  other. 
This  is  unjust,  because  a  great  merit  is  seldom  found  alone — 
there  has  seldom,  for  example,  been  a  great  imagination  with- 
out a  great  intellect ;  and  because  it  is  envy  which  allows  the 
prominence  of  one  faculty  to  conceal  others  which  are  only  ? 
little  less  conspicuous.  Burke  was  long  counted  by  many  ^ 
fanciful,  showy  writer  without  judgment;  although  it  is  now 
universally  granted  that  his  understanding  was  more  than  equal 
to  his  fancy.  It  was  once  fashionable  to  praise  the  prodigality 
of  Chalmers'  imagination,  at  the  expense  of  his  intellect ;  it 
seems  now  admitted,  that  although  his  imagination  was  not 
prodigal,  but  vivid — nor  his  intellect  subtile,  though  strong — ■ 


JEREMIAH.  155 

that  botli  were  commensurate.  A  similar  fate  lias  befallen 
Jeremiah.  Because  lie  was  plaintive,  other  qualities  have  been 
denied,  or  grudgingly  conceded  him.  The  tears  which  often 
blinded  him,  have  bhnded  his  critics  also. 

The  first  quality  exhibited  in  Jeremiah's  character  and  his- 
tory, is  shrinking  timidity.  His  first  words  are,  "  Ah,  Lord  God, 
behold  I  can  not  speak,  for  I  am  a  child."  The  storm  of  in- 
spiration had  seized  on  a  sensitive  plant  or  quivering  aspen,  in- 
stead of  an  oak  or  a  pine.  Jeremiah,  at  this  crisis,  reminds  us 
of  Hamlet,  in  the  greatness  of  his  task,  and  the  indecision  or 
feebleness  of,  his  temperament.  And  yet  this  very  weakness 
serves  at  length  to  attest  the  truth  and  power  of  the  afiiatus. 
Jeremiah,  with  a  less  pronounced  personality  than  his  brethren, 
supplies  a  better  image  of  an  instrument  in  God's  hand,  of  one 
moved,  tuned,  taught,  from  behind  and  above.  Strong  in  su- 
pernal strength,  the  child  is  made  a  "  fenced  city,  an  iron  pillar, 
and  a  brazen  wall."  Traces,  indeed,  of  his  original  feebleness 
and  reluctance  to  undertake  stern  duties,  are  found  scattered 
throughout  his  prophecy.  We  find  him,  for  instance,  renewing 
the  curse  of  Job  against  the  day  of  his  birth.  We  find  him,  in  the 
same  chapter,  complaining  of  the  derision  to  which  he  was  sub- 
jected, in  the  discharge  of  his  mission.  But  he  is  re-assured,  by 
remembering  that  the  Lord  is  with  him,  as  a  "  mighty  terrible 
one."  His  chief  power,  besides  pathos,  is  impassioned  exhorta- 
tion. His  prophecy  is  one  long  application.  He  is  distinguished 
by  powerful  and  searching  practicalness.  He  is  urgent,  vehe- 
ment, to  agony.  His  "  heart  is  broken"  within  him  ;  his  "  bones 
shake  ;"  he  is  "  like  a  drunken  man,"  because  of  the  Lord,  and 
the  words  of  his  holiness.  This  fury  often  singles  out  the  igno- 
rant pretenders  to  the  prophetic  gift,  who  abounded  in  the  decay 
and  degradation  of  Judah.  Like  an  eagle  plucking  from  the 
jackdaw  his  own  shed  plumes,  does  Jeremiah  lay  about  him  in 
his  righteous  rage.  Their  dull  dreams  he  tears  in  pieces,  for 
"  what  is  the  chaff  to  the  wheat,  saith  the  Lord."  For  their 
feigned  "  burdens,"  he  substitutes  a  weight  of  wrath  and  con- 
tempt, under  which  they  sink  into  ignominy.   Mingled  with  thi  :■ 


156  JEREMIAH. 

ardor  of  spirit,  and  earnestness  of  appeal,  there  are  touches  of 
poetic  grandeur.  Witness  the  picture  in  the  4th  chapter,  of 
the  tokens  attesting  the  forthcoming  of  the  Lord  to  vengeance. 
Chaos  comes  again  over  the  earth.  Darkness  covers  the  heaven. 
The  everlasting  mountains  tremble.  Man  disappeai-s  from  be- 
low, and  the  birds  fly  from  the  darkened  air.  Cities  become 
ruins,  and  the  fruitful  places  v»'ildernesses,  before  the  advancing 
anger  of  the  Lord.  Byron's  Darkness  is  a  faint  copy  of  this 
picture ;  it  is  an  inventory  of  horrible  circumstances,  which 
seem  to  have  been  laboriously  culled  and  painfully  massed  up. 
Jeremiah  performs  his  task  with  two  or  three  strokes ;  but  they 
are  strokes  of  lightning. 

Before  closing  his  prophecy,  this  prophet  must  mount  a  lofty 
peak,  whence  the  lands  of  God's  fury,  the  neighboring  idolatrous 
countries,  are  commanded,  and  pour  out  lava  streams  of  invective 
upon  their  inhabitants.  And  it  is  a  true  martial  fire  which  in- 
spirits his  descriptions  of  carnage  and  desolation.  In  his  own 
language,  he  is  a  "  lion  from  the  swellings  of  Jordan,  coming  up 
against  the  habitation  of  the  strong."  All  tears  are  now  wiped 
from  his  face.  There  is  a  fury  in  his  eye  which  makes  you  won- 
der if  aught  else  were  ever  there ;  it  is  mildness  maddened  into 
a  holy  and  a  fearful  frenzy.  In  a  noble  rage,  he  strips  off  the 
bushy  locks  of  Gaza,  dashes  down  the  proud  vessel  of  Moab, 
consumes  Ammon,  makes  Esau  bare,  breaks  the  bow  of  Elam, 
and  brandishes  again,  and  again,  and  again,  a  sword  over  Baby- 
lon, crying  out  at  each  new  blow,  "  a  sword  is  upon  the  Chal- 
deans ;  a  sword  is  upon  the  liars ;  a  sword  is  upon  her  mighty 
men ;  a  sword  is  upon  their  horses  ;  a  sword  is  upon  her  treas- 
ures." We  have  difficulty  in  recognizing  the  weeper  among 
the  willows  in  this  homicidal  Energy,  all  whose  tears  have  been 
turned  into  devouring  fire. 

Besides  his  Lamentations — which  have  occasioned  the  general 
mistake  that  he  is  wholly  an  elegiac  poet — fine  strokes  of  pathos 
are  scattered  amid  the  urgency,  the  boldness,  and  the  splen- 
dor of  his  prophecy.  His  is  that  melting  figure  of  Rachel, 
weeping  for  her  children,  and  refusing  to  be  comforted,  because 


JEREMIAH.  167 

they  are  not.  His  is  that  appeal  to  Epiiraim — -"  Is  he  my  dear 
son  ?  is  he  a  pleasant  child  ?"  which  sounds  like  the  yearning 
of  God's  own  bowels.  His  the  plaintive  question — "  Is  there 
no  balm  in  Gilead  ?"  And  his  the  wide  wish  of  sorrow — "  Oh 
that  my  head  were  waters,  and  mine  eyes  a  fountain  of  tears, 
that  I  might  weep  night  and  day  for  the  slain  of  the  daughter 
of  my  people !" 

And  was  not  this  wide  wish  granted  when,  in  the  Lamen- 
tations, he  poured  out  his  heart  in  those  deep  melodies  of  des- 
olation, mourning,  and  woe  ?  Here,  to  use  the  beautiful  lan- 
guage of  one  departed,  "the  scene  is  Jerusalem  lying  in  heaps; 
the  poet,  the  child  of  holy  inspiration,  appears  upon  the  ruins, 
and,  with  notes  of  desolation  and  woe,  strikes  his  harp  to  the 
fallen  fortunes  of  his  country.  It  was  not  that  the  pleasant 
land  now  lay  waste — and  it  did  lie  waste ;  it  was  not  that  the 
dauo^hters  of  Jerusalem  were  slain,  and  her  streets  ran  red — and 
they  did  run  red ;  but  it  was  the  temple — the  temple  of  the 
Lord,  with  its  altars,  its  sanctuary,  its  holy  of  holies  leveled 
to  the  ground — rubbish  where  beauty  stood,  ruin  where  strength 
was :  its  glory  fled,  its  music  ceased,  its  solemn  assemblies  no 
more,  and  its  priesthood  immolated,  or  carried  far  away.  These 
had  shed  their  glory  over  Israel,  and  over  all  the  land,  and  it 
was  the  destruction  of  these  which  gave  its  tone  of  woe  to  the 
heart  of  the  Israelite  indeed."  Yet  the  feelings  which  fill  his 
heart  to  bursting  are  of  a  complicated  character.  A  sense  of 
Israel's  past  glory  mingles  with  a  sense  of  her  guilt :  he  weeps 
over  her  ruin  the  more  bitterly  that  it  is  self-inflicted.  There 
is  no  protest  taken  against  the  severity  of  the  divine  judgments, 
and  yet  no  patriot  can  more  keenly  appreciate,  vividly  describe, 
or  loudly  lament  the  splendors  that  were  no  more.  We  can 
conceive  an  angrier  prophetic  spirit,  finding  a  savage  luxury,  in 
comparing  the  deserted  streets  and  desecrated  shrines  of  Jeru- 
salem with  his  own  predictions,  and  crying  out — "  Did  I  not 
foretell  all  this?"  as,  with  swift,  resounding  strides,  flaming 
eye,  gaunt  cheek,  and  disheveled  hair,  he  passed  on  his  way 
through  them,  like  the  spirit  of  their  desolation,  to  the  wilder- 


158  JEREMIAH. 

ness.  Jeremiali  views  tlie  scene  with  softer  feelings,  identifies 
himself  with  his  country,  feels  Jerusalem's  sword  in  his  own 
heart,  and  lingers  in  fond  admiration  of  its  happier  times,  when 
the  sons  of  Zion  were  comparable  to  fine  gold — when  her  Naza- 
rites  were  purer  than  snow,  whiter  than  milk,  more  ruddy  than 
rubies — when  the  beloved  city  was  full  of  people,  great  among 
the  nations,  and  a  princess  among  the  provinces — the  perfection 
of  beauty,  and  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth. 

We  are  reminded  of  the  "Harp  of  Selma,"  and  of  blind 
Ossian  sitting  amid  the  evening  sunshine  of  the  Highland 
valley,  and  in  tremulous,  yet  aspiring  notes,  telling  to  his  small, 
silent,  and  weeping  circle,  the  tale  of 

"  Old,  unhappy,  far  off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago." 

It  has  become  fashionable  to  abuse  the  poems  of  Ossian ;  but, 
admitting  their  forgery,  as  well  as  faultiness,  they  seem  to  us, 
in  their  h£tter  passages,  to  approach  more  nearly  than  any 
modern  English  prose  to  the  force,  vividness,  and  patriarchal 
simplicity  and  tenderness  of  the  Old  Testament  style.  Lifting- 
up  like  a  curtain  the  mist  of  the  past,  they  show  us  a  world 
unique  and  intensely  poetical,  peopled  by  heroes,  bards, 
maidens,  and  ghosts,  and  separated  by  their  mountains  from 
all  countries  and  ages  save  their  own.  It  is  a  great  picture, 
painted  on  clouds  instead  of  canvas,  and  invested  with  colors 
as  gorgeous  as  its  shades  are  dark.  Its  pathos  has  a  wild  sob- 
bing in  it — an  JSolian  tremulousness  of  tone,  like  the  wail  of 
spirits.  And  than  Ossian  himself,  the  last  of  his  race,  answer- 
ing the  plaints  of  the  wilderness — the  plover's  shriek,  the  "  hiss" 
of  the  homeless  stream,  the  bee  in  the  heather  bloom,  the  rustle 
of  the  birch  above  his  head,  the  roar  of  the  cataract  behind,  in 
a  voice  of  kindred  freedom  and  kindred  melancholy,  conversing 
less  with  the  little  men  around  him  than  with  the  giant  spirits 
of  his  fathers — we  have  few  finer  figures  in  the  whole  region  of 
poetry.     Ossian,  in  short,  ranks  with  the  Robbers  and  the  Sea- 


EZEKIEL.  159 

sons,  as  a  work  of  prodigal  beauties,  and  more  prodigal  faults, 
and,  partly  through,  both,  has  impressed  the  world. 

We  return  to  the  sweet,  sad  singer  of  Israel,  only  to  notice 
the  personal  interest  he  acquires,  from  the  fuller  details  given  of 
his  history.  If  less  interesting  by  nature  than  other  prophets,  he 
is  more  so  by  circumstances.  Isaiah,  Elijah,  and  Ezekiel,  "  come 
like  shadows,  so  depart."  We  know  little  of  their  ordinary  life. 
They  appear  only  on  great  occasions,  and  their  appearance, 
like  that  of  a  comet,  is  generally  a  signal  for  surprise  or  terror. 
We  scarcely  can  conceive  of  them  suffering  from  common  ca- 
lamities, although  sublime  agonies  are  often  theirs.  Isaiah  in  the 
stocks,  instead  of  turning  back  the  shadow  of  Ahaz ;  Ezekiel, 
drawn  up  by  a  rope  of  rags  from  a  dungeon,  instead  of  being- 
snatched  away  by  the  locks  of  his  head  toward  heaven,  seem  in- 
congruous conceptions.  But  we  find  Jeremiah  smitten,  put  in  the 
stocks,  the  yoke  upon  his  neck  broken  ;  we  see  him  sinking  in 
the  mire  of  the  dungeons,  and  drawn  up  thence  by  cords ;  we 
find  many  similar  incidents  recorded  in  his  history,  which,  while 
lessening  somewhat  its  grandeur,  add  to  its  humanity.  "  Alas  ! 
my  brother,"  is  our  exclamation,  as  we  witness  his  woes.  A 
brother's  voice,  now  tremulous  in  grief,  now  urgent  in  entreaty, 
now  loud  in  anger,  and  now  swelling  into  lofty  poetry,  sounds 
down  upon  us  through  the  solemn  centuries  of  the  past,  and 
we  grieve  that  the  grave  denies  us  the  blessings  of  a  brother's 
presence,  and  the  pressure  of  a  brother's  hand. 

EZEKIEL. 

But  who  dare  claim  kindred  with  Ezekiel,  the  severe,  the 
mystic,  the  unfathomable,  the  lonely,  whose  hot,  hurried  breath 
we  feel  approaching  us,  like  the  breath  of  a  furnace  ?  Perhaps 
the  eagle  may,  for  his  eye  was  as  keen '  and  as  fierce  as  hers. 
Perhaps  the  lion  may,  for  his  voice,  too,  sounded  vast  and 
hollow  on  the  wilderness  wind.  Perhaps  the  wild  ass  may,  for 
his  step  was,  like  hers,  incontrollable.  Or  does  he  not  turn 
away  proudly  from  all  these,  and,  looking  up,  demand  as  asso- 


160  EZEKIEL.  ■* 

elates,  the  most  fervid  of  the  burning  ones,  those  who,  of  the 
angeUc  throng,  stand  the  nearest,  and  yet  blench  the  least, 
before  the  throne  of  God  ?  Does  he  not  cry,  as  he  sees  the 
seven  angels,  holding  the  seven  last  vials  of  divine  wrath,  and 
coming  forth  from  the  "  smoke  of  the  glory  of  God,"  "  These 
are  my  brethren,"  be  mine  to  mingle  with  these,  to  be  clean  as 
these,  and  to  bear  a  like  "vessel  of  the  Lord"  v.'ith  these? 
Does  he  not  wish  to  stand  apart  even  from  Isaiah,  Daniel,  Ha- 
bakkuk,  and  John  ? 

The  comparison  of  a  comet,  often  used,  and  generally  wasted, 
is  strikingly  applicable  to  Ezekiel.  Sharp,  distinct,  yet  nebu- 
lous, swift,  sword-shaped,  blood-red,  he  hangs  in  the  Old  Tes- 
tament sky,  rather  burning  as  a  portent,  than  shining  as  a 
prophet.  It  is  not  his  magnitude,  or  solidity,  so  much  as  his 
intensity  and  his  strangeness,  which  astonish  you.  It  is  not  the 
amount  of  light  he  gives  which  you  value  so  much,  as  the  heat, 
the  excitement,  and  the  curiosity  which  he  produces.  "  From 
what  depths,  mysterious  stranger,  hast  thou  come  ?  what  are 
the  tidings  of  thy  shadowed,  yet  fiery  beams?  and  whither  art 
thou  bound  ?"  are  inevitable  questions  to  ask  at  him,  although 
the  answers  have  not  yet  fully  arrived.  To  use  the  language 
of  another,  "  he  is  a  treasury  of  gold  and  gems,  but  triple-barred, 
and  guarded  by  watching  seraphim." 

The  comet,  then,  is  but  a  fiery  sword  protecting  a  system 
behind  it.  To  burst  beyond  a  boundary  so  sternly  fixed,  and 
expound  the  heights  and  depths  of  his  meaning,  is  not  our  pur- 
pose. We  shall  be  satisfied  if  we  can  catch,  in  dim  daguerreo- 
type, the  outline  of  the  guardian  shape. 

Mark,  first,  the  lofty  and  visionary  groundwork  of  his  pro- 
phecy. It  is  the  record  of  a  succession  of  trances.  The  pro- 
phet usually  hangs  high  between  earth  and  the  regions  of  the 
ethereal.  A  scenery,  gigantic  as  that  of  dreams,  select  as  that 
of  pictures,  rich  as  that  of  fancy,  and  distinct  as  that  of  nature, 
surrounds  his  motions,  and  swims  before  his  eye.  The  shapes 
which  he  had  seen  in  the  temple  come  back  upon  his  captive 
vision,  but  come  back,  altered  in  form,  enlarged  in  size,  and 


EZEKIEL.  161 

shining  in  the  radiance  of  the  divine  glory.  How  terrific  the 
composite  of  the  four  hving  creatures,  with  their  four  faces  and 
wings,  seen  amid  a  confusion  of  hght  and  darkness,  of  still  fire 
and  leaping  lightnings,  of  burnished  brass  and  burning  coals, 
coupled  with  the  high  rings  of  the  eyed  wheels,  unified  by  the 
spirit  moving  in  them  all,  overhung  by  the  terrible  crystal 
of  a  firmament,  and  that  again  by  the  sapphire  throne,  and 
that  again  by  the  similitude  of  a  man  seated  upon  it,  sur- 
rounded, as  they  pursue  their  strait,  stern  path,  by  the 
girdle  of  a  rainbow,  which  softens  the  fiery  storm,  and  moving 
to  the  music  of  a  rnultitude  of  waters,  "  as  the  noise  of  an 
host,"  which  is  commanded  from  above  by  a  mightier,  solitary 
voice — the  voice  of  the  Eternal !  What  pencil  shall  repre- 
sent to  us  the  glory  of  this  apparition  ?  or  who,  but  one  whose 
brow  had  been  made  adamant,  and  whose  eye  had  been  cleansed 
with  lightning,  could  have  faced  it  as  it  passed  ?  Or  shall  we 
look  at  the  prophet  again,  seized  by  the  form  of  a  man's  hand, 
lifted  up  by  a  lock  of  his  hair  between  earth  and  heaven,  and 
brought  from  Chebar  to  Jerusalem  ?  or  shall  we  follow  him,  as 
he  passes  down  the  deepening  abominations  of  his  country  ? 
or  shall  we  witness  with  him  the  man  clothed  with  linen,  bap- 
tizing Jerusalem  with  fire  ?  or  shall  w^e  descend  after  him  into 
that  nameless  valley,  full  of  dry  bones  ?  or  shall  we  take  our 
stand  beside  him  on  that  high  hill,  higher  far  than  that  of 
Mirza's  vision,  or  than  any  peak  in  the  Delectable  Mountains, 
and  see  the  great  city  on  the  south,  or  hear  the  rush  of  the  holy 
waters,  encompassing  the  earth  ?  Visions  these,  for  which  the 
term  sublime  is  lowly,  and  the  term  "  poetic"  poor.  From 
heaven,  in  some  clear  future  day,  might  be  expected  to  fall 
down  at  once  the  epithets  which  can  express  their  glory,  and 
the  light  which  can  explain  their  meaning. 

We  mark,  next,  besides  his  visions,  a  singular  abundance  and 
variety  of  typical  acts  and  attitudes.  Xow,  he  eats  a  roll,  of  a 
deadly  sweetness.  Kow  he  enacts  a  mimic  siege  against  a  tile, 
representing  Jerusalem.  Now  he  shaves  his  beard  and  hair, 
burns  a  third  part  in  the  fire,  smites  a  third  part  with  a  knife, 


162  EZEKIEL. 

scatters  a  third  part  to  the  winds,  reserving  only  a  few  hairs  as 
a  remnant.  Now  he  makes  and  shows  a  chain,  as  the  worthy- 
recompense  of  an  evil  and  an  insane  generation.  Now  he  pre- 
pares stuff  for  removing,  and  brings  it  out  day  after  day  in  the 
sight  of  all.  Now  he  stands  with  bread  and  water  in  his  hands, 
but  with  bread,  water,  hands,  body,  and  head,  trembling,  £is  if 
in  some  unheard  storm,  as  a  sign-  of  coming  tremors  and  tem- 
pests among  his  people.  And  now,  sad  necessity,  the  desire  of 
his  eyes,  his  wife,  is  taken  away  by  a  stroke ;  yet  God's  seal  is 
set  upon  his  lips,  forbidding  him  to  mourn.  It  was  the  sole 
link  binding  him  to  earth,  and,  once  broken,  he  becomes 
loosened,  and  free  as  a  column  of  smoke  separated  from  the  sac- 
rifice, and  gilded  into  flame  by  the  setting  sun. 

Such  types  suited  the  ardent  temperament  of  the  East.  They 
were  its  best  oratorical  gestures.  They  expressed  what  the 
waving  of  hands,  the  bending  of  knees,  and  the  beating  of 
breasts,  could  not  fully  do.  They  were  solidified  figures. 
Modern  ages  can  show  nothing  equal  or  similar,  for  Burke's 
dagger  must,  by  universal  consent,  be  sheathed.  But  still  the 
roll,  the  tile,  the  hair,  the  chain,  the  quaking  bread  and  water, 
of  Ezekiel,  shall  be  preserved  as  specimens  of  an  extinct  tongue, 
the  strangest  and  strongest  ever  spoken  on  earth. 

We  mark,  next,  with  all  critics,  a  peculiar  boldness  of  spirit 
and  vehemence  of  language.  How  can  he  fear  man,  who  had 
trembled  not  in  the  presence  of  visions,  the  report  of  which  on 
his  page  is  yet  able  to  bristle  the  hair  and  chill  the  blood  ? 
Thrown  into  heaven's  heat,  as  into  a  furnace,  he  comes  forth 
indurated  to  suffering  and  to  shame — his  face  a  flint,  his  "  brow 
adamant,''*  his  eye  a  coal  of  supernatural  fire.  Ever  after- 
ward, his  style  seems  hurrying  in  chase  of  the  "  wheels,"  and 
his  colors  of  speech  are  changing  and  gorgeous  as  the  light 
which  surrounded  them.  That  first  vision  seen  on  Chebar's 
banks,  becomes  his  ideal,  and  all  his  after-predictions  either 
reach,  or  aim  at  reaching,  its  glory.  A  certain  rough  power,  too, 
distinguishes  many  of  his  chapters.  He  is  "  naked,  and  is  not 
ashamed."     As  he  felt  bound  to  give  a  severe  and  literal  tran- 


EZEKIEL.  163 

script  of  tlie  "  things  of  heaven"  which  he  srav,  he  conceives 
himself  bound  also  literally  to  transcribe  the  things  of  earth  and 
hell. 

Kotwithstanding  this  impetuosity,  there  comes  sometimes 
across  his  jet  black  lyre,  with  its  fiery  strings,  a  soft,  beauti- 
ful music,  which  sounds  more  sweetly  and  strangely  from  the 
medium  it  has  found.  It  is  not  pathos,  but  elegant  beauty,  re- 
posing amid  rude  strength,  like  a  finished  statue  found  in  an 
aboriginal  cave.  There  is,  for  instance,  a  picture  in  the  16th 
chapter,  which  a  high  judge  calls  the  "  most  delicately  beauti- 
ful in  the  written  language  of  men."  "  Then  washed  I  thee 
with  water  ;  yea,  I  thoroughly  washed  away  thy  blood  from  thee, 
and  I  anointed  thee  with  oil.  I  clothed  thee  also  with  broidered 
work,  and  shod  thee  with  badgers'  skin,  and  I  girded  thee  about 
with  fine  linen,  and  I  covered  thee  with  silk.  I  decked  thee 
also  with  ornaments,  and  I  put  bracelets  upon  thy  hands,  and  a 
chain  on  thy  neck.  And  I  put  a  jewel  on  thy  forehead,  and 
ear-rings  in  thine  ears,  and  a  beautiful  crown  upon  thine  heaS. 
Thus  wast  thou  decked  with  gold  and  silver,  and  thy  raiment 
was  of  fine  linen,  and  silk,  and  broidered  work ;  thou  didst  eat 
fine  flour,  and  honey,  and  oil :  and  thou  wast  exceeding  beau- 
tiful, and  thou  didst  prosper  into  a  kingdom.  And  thy  renown 
went  forth  among  the  heathen  for  thy  beauty  :  for  it  was  per- 
fect through  my  comeliness,  which  I  had  put  upon  thee,  saith 
the  Lord  God."  This  seems  a  fragment  of  Solomon's  Song ; 
it  is  a  jewel  dropped  from  the  forehead  of  his  "  spouse,"  and 
acts  as  2ifoil  to  the  fearful  minuteness  of  description  which 
characterizes  the  rest  of  the  chapter.  In  this  point  of  his  genius, 
Ezekiel  resembles  Dante.  Like  Dante,  he  loves  the  terrible ; 
but,  like  Dante  too,  the  beautiful  seems  to  love  him. 

Sprinkled,  besides,  amid  the  frequent  grandeurs  and  rare 
beauties  of  his  book,  are  practical  appeals,  of  close  and  cogent 
force.  Such,  for  instance,  are  his  picture  of  a  watchman's  duty, 
his  parable  of  sour  grapes,  his  addresses  at  various  times  to  the 
shepherds,  to  the  elders,  and  to  the  people  of  Israel.  From  dim 
imaginative  heights,  he  comes  down,  hke  Moses  from  the  dark- 


164  EZEKIEL. 

ness  of  Sinai,  with  face  shining  and  foot  stamping  out  indig- 
nation against  a  guilty  people,  who  thought  him  lost  upon  his 
aerial  altitudes.  He  is  at  once  the  most  poetical  and  practical 
of  preachers.  This  paradox  has  not  unfrequently  been  exem- 
plified in  the  history  of  preaching,  as  the  names  of  Chrysostom, 
Taylor,  Howe,  Hall,  and  Chalmers,  can  testify.  He  who  is  aHe 
to  fly  upward,  is  able  to  return,  and  with  tenfold  impetus,  from 
his  flight.  The  poet,  too,  has  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  the 
springs  of  human  nature  which  no  study  and  no  experience  can 
fully  supply,  and  which  enables  him,  when  he  turns  from  his 
visions  to  the  task,  to  "  pierce  to  the  dividing  asunder  of  soul 
and  sjDirit,  of  the  joints  and  marrow,"  and  to  become  a  "  dis- 
cerner  of  the  thoughts  and  intents  of  the  heart."  In  Ezekiel's 
prophecy,  we  find  visions  and  practical  exhortations  almost 
equally  blended — the  dark  and  the  clear  alternate,  and  produce 
a  fine  chiaro-scuro,  like 

"  That  beautiful  uncertain  weather, 
"Where  gloom  and  glory  meet  together." 

On  the  range  of  prophetic  mountains,  overlooking  the  Pagan 
lands,  Ezekiel,  like  his  brethren,  has  a  summit,  and  a  dark  and 
high  summit  it  is.  The  fire  which  he  flings  abroad  from  it 
comes  from  a  "  furnace  heated  seven  times  hotter"  than  that  of 
the  rest.  He  daUies  with  the  destruction  of  Israel's  foes ;  he 
"  rolls  it  as  a  sweet  morsel  under  his  tongue ;"  he  protracts  the 
fierce  luxury ;  he  throws  it  out  into  numerous  imaginative 
shapes,  that  he  may  multiply  his  pleasure.  He  sings  in  the  ear 
of  one  proud  oppressor  the  fate  of  a  former,  as  the  forerunner 
of  his  own.  He  mingles  a  bitter  ii-ony  with  his  denunciations. 
He  utters,  for  example,  a  laynentation  over  Egypt ;  and  such  a 
lamentation — a  lamentation  without  sorrow,  nay,  full  of  exults- 
ing  and  trampling  gladness.  And  at  last,  opening  the  wide 
mouth  of  Hades,  he  throws  in — "heaps  upon  heaps" — all 
Israel's  enemies — Pharaoh,  Elam,  Meshech,  Tubal,  Edom,  the 
Zidonians,  in  "  ruiu  reconciled" — and  with  a  shout  of  laughter 


EZEKIEL.  165 

leaves  tliem  massed  together  in  one  midniglit  of  common  de- 
struction, 

Ezekiel  was  a  priest  as  well  as  a  prophet,  and  alludes  more 
frequently  than  any  of  the  prophets  to  the  ceremonial  institutes 
of  the  temple.  He  was  every  inch  a  Jew ;  and  none  of  the 
prophets  possessed  more  attachment  to  their  country,  more  zeal 
for  their  law,  and  more  hatred  to  its  foes.  It  is  not  enough  for 
him  to  predict  the  ruin  of  Zion's  2^resent  enemies  ;  he  must 
spring  forward  into  the  future,  organize  and  bring  up  from  the 
far  north  a  shadowy  army  of  enemies,  Gog  and  Magog,  against 
the  mountains  of  Israel,  and  please  his  insatiate  spirit  of  pat- 
riotism, by  whelming  them  also  in  a  vaster  and  a  final  doom. 
And  leaving  them  to  their  "  seven  months'  burial,"  he  hurries 
away,  in  the  hand  of  God,  to  the  very  high  mountain,  where, 
in  place  of  the  feUen  temple  and  deserted  streets  of  Jerusalem, 
the  new  city,  the  new  temple,  and  the  new  country  of  the  prince 
appear  before  his  view,  and  comfort  him  under  the  darkness  of 
the  present,  by  the  transcendent  glories  of  the  future  hovering 
over  the  history  of  his  beloved  people. 

Such  a  being  was  Ezekiel — among  men,  but  not  of  them — 
detained,  in  the  company  of  flesh,  his  feet  on  earth,  his  soul 
floating  amid  the  cherubim.  We  have  tried  to  describe  him  ; 
but  perhaps  it  had  been  our  wisdom  to  have  said  only,  as  he 
heard  it  said  to  an  object  representing  well  the  swiftness, 
strength,  and  impetuosity  of  his  own  spirit — "O  wheel !" 

Amplification  is  asserted,  by  Eichhorn  and  others,  to  be  the 
peculiarity  of  Ezekiel.  It  was  as  truly  asserted  by  Hall,  to  be 
the  differentia  of  Burke.  He  no  doubt  describes  minutely  the 
objects  before  him  ;  but  this  because,  more  than  other  prophets, 
he  had  objects  visually  presented,  complicated  and  minute  to  de- 
scribe. But  his  description  of  them  is  always  terse  and  suc- 
cinct ;  indeed,  the  stern  literahty  with  which  he  paints  ideal  and 
spiritual  figures  is  one  cause  of  his  obscurity.  He  never  deals 
with  his  visions  artistically  or  by  selection,  but  seems  simply  to 
turn  his  soul  out  before  us,  to  daguerreotype  the  dimmest  of  his 
dreams.     Thus,  too,  Burke,  from  the  vividness  of  his  imagina- 


1G6  DANIEL. 

tion,  seems  often  to  "be  rlietoricaily  expanding  and  exaggerating, 
while,  in  fact,  lie  is  but  severely  copying  from  the  large  pictures 
which  have  arisen  before  his  view. 

We  know  little  of  this  prophet's  history :  it  is  marked  chiefly 
by  the  procession  of  his  predictions,  as  during  twenty-one  years 
they  marched  onward  to  the  mountain-top,  where  they  were 
abruptly  closed.  But  we  can  not  successfully  check  our  fancy, 
as  she  seeks  to  represent  to  us  the  face  and  figure  of  this  our 
favorite  prophet.  We  see  him  young,  slender,  long-locked, 
stooping,  as  if  under  the  burden  of  the  Lord — with  a  visible  fire 
in  his  eye  and  cheek,  and  an  invisible  fire  about  his  motions 
and  gestures,  earnest  purpose  pursuing  him  like  a  ghost,  a 
wild  beauty  hanging  around  him,  like  the  blossom  on  the 
thorn  tree,  and  the  air  of  early  death  adding  a  supernatural 
age  and  dignity  to  his  youthful  aspect.  We  see  him,  as  he 
moved  through  the  land,  a  sun-gilded  storm,  followed  by  looks 
of  admiration,  wonder,  and  fear;  and,  like  the  hero  of  "  Excel- 
sior," untouched  by  the  love  of  maidens,  unterrified  by  the 
counsel  of  elders,  undismayed  by  danger  or  by  death,  climbing 
straight  to  his  object.  We  see  him  at  last,  on  the  Mount  of 
Vision — the  Pisgah  of  prophecy — first,  with  rapturous  wonder, 
saluting  the  spectacle  of  that  mystic  city  and  those  holy  waters 
— then  crying  out,  "  Lord,  now  let  thy  servant  depart  in  peace, 
for  mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation" — and  at  last,  behold, 
the  burning  soul  exhales  through  the  burning  eyes,  and  the 
wearied  body  falls  down  in  his  own  solitary  chamber — for  it 
had  been  indeed  a  "  dream,"  but  a  dream  as  true  as  are  the 
future  reign  of  Jesus  and  the  future  glory  of  the  city  and 
church  of  God. 


DANIEL. 

We  require  almost  to  apologize  for  introducing  Daniel  into 
the  same  cluster  of  prophets  with  Isaiah,  Jeremiah,  and  Ezekiel. 
And  this  not  because  it  is  rich  enough  without  him,  still  less 
that  he  is  not  worthy  of  the  conjunction,  but  that  he  seems  at 


DANIEL.  167 

first  to  belong  to  a  different  order  of  men.  They  were  proph- 
ets, and  little  else.  He  was  a  chief  counselor  in  a  great  em- 
pire. They  seem  to  have  been  poor,  sohtary,  and  wandering 
men,  despised  and  rejected ;  he  was  the  favorite  of  monarchs. 
Their  predictions  exposed  them  to  danger  and  shame;  his 
"  dreams"  drew  him  aloft  to  riches  and  honor.  They  were  ad- 
mitted now  and  then  among  princes,  because  they  were  proph- 
ets ;  but  his  power  of  prophecy  made  him  a  prince.  Their 
predictions  came  generally  naked  to  their  waking  eyes — they 
■were  day-dreams ;  but  his  were  often  softened  and  shaded  by 
the  mist  of  sleep.  And  yet  we  do  feel  justified  in  putting  the 
well-conditioned  and  gold-hung  Daniel  beside  the  gaunt,  hun- 
gry, and  wild-eyed  sons  of  the  proj^hets  we  have  just  been  pic- 
turing. Souls,  and  dark  piercing  eyes  expressing  similar  souls, 
are  kindred,  whether  they  burn  'neath  the  brows  of  beggars  or 
of  kings. 

"  Sleep  on,"  said  an  unhappy  literary  man,  over  the  dust  of 
Bunyan,  in  Bunhillfields,  "  thou  prince  of  dreamers."  Prince 
the  third  he  was;  for,  while  Joseph  is  the  first,  Daniel  is  the 
second  monarch  in  this  dim  dynasty.  His  pillow  was  at  times 
a  throne — the  throne  of  his  genius,  the  throne  of  empires,  and 
of  all  future  ages.  His  imagination,  fettered  during  the  day 
by  the  cares  of  state,  lanched  out  at  night  into  the  sea  of 
futurity,  and  brought  home,  from  its  remotest  shores,  spoils  of 
which  we  are  only  yet  learning  the  value  and  the  meaning.  It 
was  by  understanding  the  cipher  of  his  own  dreams,  that  he 
learned  to  expound  that  of  others.  As  the  poet  is  the  best, 
nay,  only  true  critic  of  poetry — as  the  painter  can  best  un- 
derstand pictures — and  the  orator  best  appreciate,  whoever 
else  may  feel,  eloquence — the  dreamer  alone  can  expound 
dreams. 

Ovaq  Euji  Jiog — "  a  dream  is  from  God,"  is  one  of  the 
earliest,  shortest,  and  truest  of  sentences.  Strange,  stuttering, 
imperfect,  but  real  and  direct  messengers  from  the  Infinite,  are 
our  dreams.  Like  worn-out  couriers,  dying  with  their  news  at 
the  threshold  of  the  door,  dreams  seem  sometimes  unable  to 


168  DANIEL. 

utter  their  tidings.  Or  is  it  rather  that  we  do  not  yet  under- 
stand their  language,  and  must  often  thus  lay  missives  aside, 
which  contain  at  once  our  duty  and  our  destiny  ?  No  theory 
of  dreams  as  yet  seems  entirely  satisfactory  ;  but  most  imperfect 
are  those  theories  which  deny  in  them  any  preternatural  and 
prophetic  element.  AYhat  man  for  years  watches  his  dreams — 
ranges  them  each  morning  round  his  couch — compares  them 
with  each  other,  "  spiritual  things  with  spiritual" — compares 
them  with  events — without  the  profound  conviction  that  a  super- 
human power  is  "  floating,  mingling,  interweaving,"  with  those 
shapeless  shades — that  in  dreams  he  often  converses  with  the 
dead,  meets  with  the  loosened  spirits  of  the  sleeping  upon  com- 
mon ground,  exerts  powers  unknown  to  his  waking  moments, 
recalls  the  past  though  perished,  sees  the  present  though  dis- 
tant, and  descries  many  a  clear  spot  through  the  mist  of  the 
future  ?  The  dreaming  world — as  the  region  where  all  elements 
are  mingled,  all  contradictions  reconciled,  all  tenses  lost  in  one 
— supplies  us  with  the  only  faint  conception  we  have  of  that 
awful  NOW,  in  which  the  Eternal  dwells.  In  every  dream  does 
not  the  soul,  like  a  stream,  sink  transiently  into  the  deep  abyss, 
whence  it  came,  and  where  it  is  to  merge  at  death,  and  are 
not  the  confusion  and  incoherence  of  dreams  just  the  hubbub, 
the  foam,  and  the  struggle,  with  which  the  river  weds  the 
ocean  ? 

But  all  dreams,  which  ever  waved  rapture  over  the  brow  of 
youthful  genius,  dreaming  of  love  or  heaven,  or  which  ever  dis- 
tilled poison  on  the  drugged  and  desperate  repose  of  unhappy 
bard  or  philosopher,  who  has  experienced  the  "  pains  of  sleep," 
or  cried  aloud,  as  he  awoke  in  struggles — "  I  shall  sleep  no 
more,"  must  yield  in  magnitude,  grandeur,  and  comprehensive- 
ness, to  the  dreams  which  Daniel  expounded  or  saw.  They  are 
all  colossal  in  size,  as  befitted  dreams  dreamed  in  the  palaces  of 
Babylon.  No  ears  of  corn,  blasted  or  flourishing — no  kine, 
fat  or  lean — appear  to  Daniel ;  but  here  stands  up  a  great 
image,  with  head  of  gold,  breast  of  silver,  belly  of  brass,  and 
feet  of  iron,  mingled  with  mire  clay ;  and  there  waves  a  tree, 


DANIEL.  169 

tall  as  heaven,  and  broad  as  earth.  Here,  again,  as  the  four 
winds  are  striving  upon  tlie  ocean,  four  monstrous  forms  emerge, 
and  there  appears  the  throne  of  the  Ancient  of  Days,  with  all 
its  appurtenances  of  majesty  and  insignia  of  justice.  •  Empires, 
religions,  the  history  of  time,  the  opening  gateways  of  eternity, 
are  all  spanned  by  those  dreams.  No  wonder  that  monarchs 
sprang  up  trembling  and  troubled  from  their  sight,  and  that  one 
of  them  changed  the  countenance  of  the  prophet,  as  years  of 
anguish  could  not  have  done. 

They  are  recounted  in  language  grave,  solemn,  serene.  The 
poetry  of  Daniel  lies  rather  in  the  objects  presented  than  in  the 
figures  or  the  language  of  the  description.  The  vehemence, 
pathos,  or  fury,  which,  in  various  measures,  characterized  his 
brethren,  are  not  found  in  him.  A  calm,  uniform  dignity  dis- 
tinguishes all  his  actions  and  words.  It  forsakes  not  his  brow 
even  while  he  is  astonished  for  one  hour  in  the  presence  of  the 
monarch.  It  enters  with  him  as  he  enters,  awful  in  holiness, 
into  the  hall  of  Belshazzar's  feast.  It  sits  over  him  in  the 
lion's  den,  like  a  canopy  of  state  ;  and  it  sustains  his  style  to 
its  usual  even  exalted  pitch  in  describing  the  session  of  the  An- 
cient of  Days,  and  the  fiery  stream  which  goes  forth  before 
him. 

Besides  those  dreams,  there  are  interspersed  incidents  of  the 
most  romantic  and  poetical  character.  Indeed,  Daniel  is  the 
most  romantic  book  of  Scripture.  There  is  the  burning,  fiery 
furnace,  with  ih^  fourth  Man  walking  through  it,  where  three 
only  had  been  cast  in ;  there  is  the  story  of  Nebuchadnezzar, 
driven  from  men,  but  restored  again  to  his  kingdom,  and  becom- 
ing an  humble  worshiper  of  the  God  of  heaven ;  there  is  the 
hall  of  Belshazzar,  with  the  armless  hand  and  unread  letters 
burning  from  the  wall ;  and  there  is  the  figure  of  Daniel  in 
the  den,  swaying  the  lions  by  his  eye,  and  his  holiness — em- 
blem of  a  divine  philosophy — soothing  the  savage  passions 
of  clay.  * 

Perhaps,  after  all,  the  great  grandeur  of  Daniel's  prophecy 
arises  from  its  frequent  glimpses  of  the  coming  One.     Over  all 

H 


170  DANIEL. 

the  wondrous  emblems  and  colossal  confusions  of  his  visions, 
there  is  seen  slowly,  yet  triumphantly,  rising,  one  head  and 
form — the  form  of  a  man,  the  head  of  a  prince.  It  is  the  Mes- 
siah painting  himself  upon  the  sky  of  the  future.  This  vision 
at  once  interpenetrates  and  overtops  all  the  rest.  Gathering 
from  former  prophets  the  separate  rays  of  his  glory  which  they 
saw,  Daniel  forms  them  into  one  kingly  shape  :  this  shape  he 
brings  before  the  Ancient  of  Days — to  him  assigns  the  task  of 
defending  the  holy  people — at  his  feet  lays  the  keys  of  univer- 
sal empire,  and  leaves  him  judging  the  quick  and  the  dead. 
To  Daniel,  it  was  permitted  to  bring  forth  the  first  full  birth 
of  that  great  thought,  which  has  ever  since  been  the  life  of  the 
church  and  the  hope  of  the  world. 

And  now,  too,  must  this  dignified  counselor,  this  fearless 
saint,  this  ardent  patriot,  this  blameless  man,  this  magnificent 
dreamer,  pass  away  from  our  page.  He  was  certainly  one  of 
the  most  admirable  of  Scripture  worthies.  His  character  was 
formed  in  youth ;  it  was  retained  in  defiance  of  the  seductions 
and  of  the  terrors  of  a  court.  His  genius,  furnished  with  every 
advantage  of  education,  and  every  variety  of  Pagan  learning, 
was  consecrated  to  God  ;  the  window  of  his  prophecy,  like  that 
of  his  chamber,  stood  open  toward  Jerusalem.  Over  his  death, 
as  over  that  of  the  former  three,  there  hangs  a  cloud  of  dark- 
ness. The  deaths  of  the  patriarchs  and  the  kings  are  recorded, 
but  the  prophets  drop  suddenly  from  their  airy  summits,  and 
we  see  and  hear  of  them  no  more.  Was  Isaiah  sawn  asunder  ? 
We  can  not  tell.  Did  Jeremiah  perish  a  martyr  in  Egypt  ?  We 
can  not  tell.  Did  Ezekiel  die  in  youth,  crucified  on  the  fiery 
cross  of  his  own  temperament  ?  We  can  not  tell.  And  how 
came  Daniel,  the  prince  of  dreamers,  to  his  end  ?  Did  he,  old 
and  full  of  honors,  die  amid  some  happy  Sabbath  dream  ? 
Or  did  he  depart,  turning  his  eyes  through  his  open  window 
toward  that  beloved  city  where  the  hammers  of  reconstruction 
were  already^esounding  ?  We  can  not  tell.  No  matter  :  the 
messages  are  with  us,  while  the  men  are  away ;  the  messages 
are  certain,  while  the  fate  of  the  men  is  wrapt  in  doubt.     This 


DANIEL.  171 

is  in  fine  keeping  with  the  severe  reserve  of  Scripture,  and  with 
the  character  of  its  writers.  Munificent  and  modest  benefac- 
tors, they  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  human  family  at  night, 
threw  in  inestimable  wealth,  fled,  and  the  sound  of  their  feet, 
dying  away  in  the  distance,  is  all  the  tidings  they  have  given 
of  themselves. 


CHAPTER    XL 

THE  MINOR  PROPHETS. 

Beside  the  "  giant  angels"  of  Hebrew  song,  appears  a  series 
of  "stripling  cherubs,"  who  are  commonly  called  the  minor 
prophets.  They  inherit  this  name,  because  some,  though  by  no 
means  all  of  them,  flourished  at  a  later  date  than  the  others — 
because  their  prophecies  are  shorter — because  their  genius  was 
of  a  humbler  order,  although  still  that  order  was  high — and 
because,  while  their  genuineness  and  inspiration  are  conceded, 
they  have  never  bulked  so  largely  in  the  eye  of  the  Church. 
If  the  constellation  of  large  stars  described  in  the  former  chap- 
ter may  be  compared  to  the  cross  of  the  south,  this  now  in 
sight  reminds  us  of  the  Pleiades  :  it  is  a  mass  of  minute  par- 
ticles of  glory,  which  may  be  somewhat  difficult  to  divide 
asunder. 

These  smaller  predictions  have  all  a  fragmentary  character, 
and  a  great  occasional  obscurity,  which  has  annoyed  translators 
and  verbal  critics.  What  is  written  in  brief  space  is  generally 
written  in  brief  time ;  and  what  is  written  rapidly  is  often  full 
of  rude  boldness,  abrupt  transitions,  and  violent  inversions. 
Hence,  too,  a  difficulty  which  touches  our  province  more  closely, 
the  difficulty  of  defining  the  peculiarity  of  each  of  the  prophets. 
They  have  left  only  footprints  on  that  dim  old  Hebrew  soil, 
and  from  these  we  must  gather  their  strength,  age,  and  size. 
Cuvier's  task  of  inferring  a  mastodon  from  a  bone,  here  requires 
renewal.  The  very  tread,  indeed,  of  some  animals,  bewrays 
them ;  but  then,  that  is  either  gigantic,  as  the  trami)le  of  ele- 
phants, or  peculiar,  as  the  mark  which  a  rare  and  solitary  bird 


JONAH.  lYS 

leaves  upon  the  sand  or  snow.  But  here,  many  rare  and  soh- 
tary  birds  have  left  their  prints,  close  beside  each  other,  and 
how  to  distinguish  between  them  ? 

The  order  in  which  the  minor  prophets  appear  in  our  version 
is  not  the  correct  one.  We  prefer  that  of  Dr.  Newcome,  who 
places  them  according  to  the  respective  dates  of  their  lives  and 
predictions.     According  to  his  arrangement,  the  first  is 

JON'AH. 

All  known  about  this  prophet,  besides  what  is  told  us  in  his 
book,  is  simply  that  he  liv^ed  in  or  before  the  reign  of  Jeroboam 
the  Second,  and  was  born  in  Gath-hepher,  in  the  tribe  of  Zebu- 
lun. 

The  story  of  Jonah,  wondrous  as  it  is,  seems,  like  that  of 
Cambuscan  and  Christabel,  only  "  half  told."  It  breaks  off  so 
abruptly,  that  you  almost  fancy  that  a  part  had  been  torn  away 
from  the  close.  "  Jonah"  possesses  little  pure  poetry.  That 
song  of  deliverance,  said,  by  some  absurd  mistake  of  tran- 
scribers, to  have  issued  from  the  whale's  belly,  instead  of,  as  its 
every  word  imports,  being  sung  upon  the  shore,  is  the  only 
specimen  of  the  prophet's  genius.  Although  not  uttered,  it 
was  perhaps  conceived  in  the  strangest  prison  where  man  ever 
breathed,  fitly  called  the  "  belly  of  hell"  (or  the  grave),  where 
a  deep  within  a  deep,  a  ward  within  the  "  innermost  main," 
confined  the  body  without  crushing  the  spirit  of  the  fugitive 
prophet.  It  is  a  sigh  of  the  sea — a  "  voice  from  the  deeps," 
audible  to  this  hour.  The  most  expressive  word,  perhaps,  in  it 
all,  is  the  pronoun  "  thy" — "  thy  billows  and  thy  waves  have 
passed  over  me."  Think  of  God's  ocean  being  felt  as  all  press- 
ing against  that  hving  dungeon,  and  demanding,  in  the  thunder 
of  all  its  surges,  the  fugitive  of  Tarshish,  and  yet,  after  exciting 
unspeakable  terror  and  remorse,  demanding  him  in  vain  !  With 
what  a  complicated  feehng  of  thankfulness  and  of  reflex  terror, 
he  seems  to  have  regarded  his  danger  and  his  deliverance  !  And 
how  the  strange  shrine  he  had  found  for  groans  unheard,  vows 


174  JONAH. 

unwitnessed,  and  prayers  broken  by  the  lasting  of  tbe  mon- 
ster's tail,  or  by  the  grinding  of  his  teeth,  suggests  the  far  off 
temple,  the  privileges  of  which  he  had  never  so  much  valued, 
as  now,  when,  seen  from  the  "  belly  of  hell,"  it  seemed  the  very 
gate  of  heaven ! 

But  the  poetry  of  the  book  of  Jonah  is  not  confined  to  this 
little  strain.     Every  thing  about  it 

"  Suffers  a  sea  change, 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

There  is,  first,  the  abrupt  call  to  the  Jewish  prophet,  to  repair 
alone,  and  confront  that  great  city,  the  name  of  which  was  a 
terror  in  his  native  land.  It  was  a  task  which  might  have 
blanched  the  cheek  of  Isaiah,  and  chilled  the  blood  of  Ezekiel. 
They  stood  afar  off  as  they  predicted  the  destruction  and  tor- 
ment of  Israel's  enemies ;  but  Jonah  must  draw  near,  and 
encounter  fierce  looks  of  hatred,  if  not  imprisonment  and  death. 
And  yet,  it  was  not  without  a  severe  struggle  that  he  deter- 
mined to  disobey,  for  hitherto  he  had  been  a  faithful  servant  of 
God.  But,  perhaps,  some  misbegotten  dream  had  <;rossed  his 
couch,  stunned  his  soul  with  the  noises  of  Nineveh,  lost  him 
amid  its  vast  expanse,  terrified  him  with  its  seas  of  faces,  and 
so  shaken  his  courage,  that  the  next  day  he  arose  and  fled  from 
the  breath  of  the  Lord,  crying  out.  If  the  semblance  be  so 
dreadful,  what  must  be  the  reality  ?  And  westward  to  Joppa, 
looking  not  behind  him,  ran  Jonah.  While  Balaam  was  the 
first  impious  prophet  on  record,  Jonah  is  the  first  temporizer 
and  trifler%ith  the  gift  and  mission  of  God.  Irritable  in  dis- 
position, perhaps  indolent,  perhaps  self-seeking,  certainly  timid, 
he  permits  his  temperament  to  triumph  over  his  inspiration. 
It  is  the  tale  of  thousands,  who  from  the  voice  of  the  Lord 
which  surrounds  them  like  an  eddying  wind,  and  says,  "  Onward 
to  duty,  to  danger,  to  glory,  and  immortality,"  flee  to  the  Tar- 
shish  of  pleasure  or  to  that  of  business  which  is  not  theirs,  or  to 
that  of  selfish  inaction,  or  to  that  of  a  not  less  selfish  despair. 
It  is  well  for  them  if  a  storm  disturb  their  course,  and  drive  them 


JONAH.  175 

into  the  true  port,  as  poverty  did  to  Johnson,  and  as  misery  to 
Cowper ;  but  more  frequently — 

"  As  they  drift  upon  their  path, 
There  is  silence  deep  as  death" — 

silence  amid  which  their  last  plunge  in  the  dead  sea  of  obliv- 
ion, and  their  last  drowning  gurgle,  become  audible,  as  thunder 
on  the  summer  deep. 

"We  have,  as  the  next  scene  in  this  singular  history,  Jonah 
gone  down  into  the  ship,  and  sunk  in  sleep.  This  was  no 
proof  of  insensibility.  Sleep  often  says  to  the  eyes  of  the 
happy,  "  Burn  on,  through  midnight,  like  the  stars  ;  ye  have 
no  need  of  me  ;"  but  to  those  of  the  wretched,  "  I  will  fold  you 
in  my  mantle,  and  buiy  you  in  sweet  oblivion  till  the  morning 
come."  In  certain  states  of  desolation,  there  lies  a  power  which 
draws  down  irresistibly  the  coverlet  of  sleep.  Not  in  the  full- 
ness of  security,  but  of  insecurity  ;  not  in  perfect  peace,  but  in 
desperate  recklessness,  Jonah  was  overpowered  by  slumber. 
He  slept,  but  the  sea  did  not.  The  sight  of  a  slumbering 
sinner  can  awake  the  universe.  But  the  rocking  ship,  the 
roaring  sea,  and  the  clamorous  sailors,  only  confirmed  the  slum- 
ber of  the  prophet — even  as  the  dead  in  the  center  of  the  city 
seem  to  sleep  more  soundly  than  in  the  country — who  hears  of 
their  apparitions  ?  Roused  he  is  at  last  by  the  master,  who  is 
more  terrified  at  his  unnatural  sleep,  than  at  the  sea's  wild 
vigil.  "  What  meanest  thou,  O  sleeper  ;  arise,  call  upon  thy 
God,  if  so  be  that  thy  God  will  think  of  us,  that  we  perish 
not."  The  God  of  the  fugitive  and  slumbering  Jonah  is  felt 
after  all  to  be  their  safety,  and  in  awakening  the  prophet,  they 
feel  as  if  they  were  awakening  h^s  Deity.  He  had  an  angry 
God,  but  they  had  none. 

How  different  the  sleep  of  Jonah  from  the  sleep  of  Jesus  on 
the  lake  of  Galilee  !  The  one  is  the  sleep  of  desperation,  the 
other  of  peace  ;  the  one  that  of  the  criminal,  the  other  of  the 
child  ;  the  one  that  of  God's  fugitive,  the  other  of  his  favorite  ; 
the  darkness  over  the  head  of  the  one  is  the  frown  of  anger ; 


1*76  JONAH. 

the  other  the  mask  upon  the  forehead  of  love !  But  each  is 
the  center  of  his  several  ship — each,  in  different  ways,  is  the 
cause  of  the  storm  ;  in  each,  in  different  ways,  hes  the  help  of 
the  vessel ;  each  must  awake — the  criminal  to  lighten  the  ship 
of  his  burden ;  the  Son  to  rebuke  the  winds  and  waves,  and 
produce  immediately  a  great  calm. 

The  moment  Jonah  entered  the  ship,  instinct  probably  told 
the  sailors  that  all  was  not  right  with  him.  The  fugitive  from 
God  carries  about  him  as  distinct  marks  as  the  fugitive  from 
man.  He,  too,  has  the  restless  motion,  the  unhappy  eye,  the 
unaccountable  agitation,  the  mutilated  or  the  melancholy  re- 
pose. He,  too,  has  the  "Avenger  of  blood"  behind  him. 
Who  has  not  witnessed  such  God-chased  men,  fleeing  from  a 
great  purpose  of  intellect,  a  high  ideal  of  life,  noble  prospects — 
from  their  happiness  itself — and  the  faster  they  fled,  the  more 
lamentable  become  the  chase  ?  And  who  has  not  felt,  too,  that 
the  place  where  such  recreants  were  was  dangerous,  since  they 
had  become  as  a  "  rolling  thing  before  the  whirlwind"  of  divine 
wrath  ?  And  what  inscription  can  be  conceived  more  painful 
than  that  which  must  be  sculptured  upon  the  sepulehers  of  such 
— "  Fallen  from  a  great  hope  ?"  Jonah  had  betrayed  his  se- 
cret, by  words  as  well  as  by  looks.  "  He  had  told  them  that  he 
had  fled  from  the  presence  of  the  Lord."  And  after  his  lot 
is  drawn,  he  proffers  himself  willingly  to  the  sacrifice,  for  his 
conscience  had  awaked  with  him,  and  he  began  to  fear  the 
roused  sea  less,  than  to  remain  in  the  midst  of  a  drowning 
ship  and  a  desperate  crew.  It  was  better  to  "  fall  into  the 
hands  of  God  than  of  men."  And  so  soon  as  the  victim,  who  had 
been  demanded  by  all  those  waves,  small  and  great,  shrieking 
or  sunk,  clear-crashing  or  hparse,  was  yielded  to  their  fury,  a 
sullen  growl  of  satisfaction  first,  then  a  loud  signal  for  retreat, 
and,  lastly,  a  whisper  commanding  universal  silence,  seem  to 
testify  that  the  sacrifice  is  accepted,  the  ship  safe,  and  Jonah  at 
the  mercy  of  the  deep.  Even  so  when  depart  the  self-stunted 
great,  or  the  inconsistent  and  undeveloped  good,  man  and  na- 


JONAH.  1Y7 

ture  seem  to  say,  half  in  sorrow,  and  half  in  gladness,  but 
"wholly  in  submission,  "  It  is  well." 

But  Jonah  must  not  yet  depart;  he  had  yet  work  to  do,  suf- 
ferings to  bear,  sins  to  contract,  a  name  of  checkered  interest  to 
leave  to  the  world.  "  The  Lord  had  prepared  a  great  fish  to 
swallow  up  Jonah."  As  a  "  creature  of  the  great  calm,"  which 
was  suddenly  produced  on  the  sea,  there  appeared,  emerging 
from  the  lowermost  deep,  and  attracted,  it  might  be,  by  the 
wondrous  silence  which  had  followed  the  wondrous  storm,  an 
enormous  fish,  which  swallowed  the  prophet,  and  descended 
with  him  into  the  sea  again.  We  do  not  seek  to  prove  or  to 
commend  this  incident  to  the  logical  intellect  or  the  sensuous 
apprehension  ;  we  look  at  it  ourselves,  and  show  it  to  others,  in 
the  light  of  faith.  Nor  let  any  one  think  himself  of  superior 
understanding,  because  he  disbelieves  it.  If  it  had  been  a  fool- 
ish legend,  why  h^ve  so  many  self-conceited  fools  rejected  it ; 
and  why  has  it  been  believed  by  Milton,  by  Newton,  and  by 
"  him  who  spake  as  never  man  spake  V  As  it  is,  this  great 
fish  doth  show  its  back,  "  most  dolphin-like,"  above  the  waves, 
and  floats  at  once  an  emblem  of  God's  forbearance  to  his  feeble 
and  fugitive  ones,  and  of  the  faithfulness  of  his  promise  to  his 
own  buried  son — "  As  Jonah  was  three  days  and  three  nights 
in  the  whale's  belly,  so  shall  the  Son  of  Man  be  three  days  and 
three  nights  in  the  heart  of  the  earth." 

After  "being  thrown  out  on  the  shore  nearest  Assyria,  and 
singing  his  song  of  thanksgiving,  Jonah,  thus  strangely  recalled 
to  his  post,  is  urged  again  by  the  word  of  the  Lord  to  enter 
Nineveh.  A  "  dreadful  sound,"  the  sound  of  the  sea,  is  in  his 
ears,  repeating  the  call.  Alone,  and  unnoticed  in  a  crowd  com- 
posed of  the  confluence  of  all  nations,  he  enters  the  capital  of 
the  East.  After,  perhaps,  a  short  silence,  the  silence  of  wonder 
at  the  sight  of  that  living  ocean,  he  raises  his  voice.  At  first, 
feeble,  tremulous,  scarcely  heard,  it  is  swollen  by  every  tributa- 
ry street,  as  he  passes,  into  a  loud  imperious  sound,  which  all 
the  cries  of  Nineveh  are  unable  to  drown.  "  Yet  forty  days,  and 
Nineveh  shall  be  overthrown."     It  is  but  a  simple  sentence, 


178  JONAH. 

uttered  again  and  again,  in  terms  unvaried.  Its  tones,  as  well 
as  its  terlias,  are  the  same  ;  it  is  a  deep  monotony,  as  if  learned 
from  a  dying  wave.  Its  effect  is  aided,  too,  by  the  appearance 
of  the  prophet.  Haggard  by  watchfulness,  soiled  by  travel, 
"  bearded  like  the  pard,"  with  a  wild  hungry  fire  in  his  eye, 
he  seems  hardly  a  being  of  this  earth.  Nineveh  is  smitten  to 
the  heart.  Ere  he  has  pierced  one  third  of  it,  it  capitulates  to 
the  message,  the  voice,  and  the  figure  of  this  stranger.  The 
king  proclaims  a  fast,  and  all,  from  the  greatest  to  the  least, 
put  on  sackcloth.  And  still  on  amid  these  trembling,  ftisting, 
and  sackcloth-clad  multitudes,  slowly  and  steadfastly  moves 
the  solitary  man,  looking  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to  the 
left,  but  uttering,  in  the  same  unmitigated  tone,  the  same  in- 
cessant cry,  "  Yet  forty  days,  and  Nineveh  shall  be  over- 
thrown." 

We  have  here  a  striking  proof  of  the  power  which  units, 
when  placed  on  the  right  side — that  of  God  and  truth — usually 
exert  over  the  masses  of  men.  As  the  figure  one  is  to  the 
ciphers,  few  or  many,  which  range  after  it,  so  is  the  hero,  the 
saint,  the  poet,  the  prophet,  and  the  sage,  to  their  species. 
One  man  enters,  thirty-four  years  ago,  the  Western  Metropolis 
of  Scotland ;  sits  quietly  down  in  a  plain  house,  in  the  north- 
west suburb,  and  writes  sermons,  which  speedily  change  his 
pulpit  into  a  battery,  and  memorize  every  Sabbath  by  a  moral 
thunder-storm.  Private  as  pestilence,  comes  another,  fis^e  years 
later,  into  London,  and  his  wild  cry,  lonely,  at  first,  as  that  of 
John's  in  the  desert,  at  last  startles  the  press,  the  parliament, 
the  court,  the  country  without,  the  throne  within,  and  it  is  felt 
that  the  one  man  has  conquered  the  two  millions.  Nay,  was 
there  not,  two  thousand  years  ago,  from  an  obscure  mount  in 
Galilee,  heard  a  voice,  saying,  "Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit, 
for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven ;"  and  has  not  that  voice, 
though  clouded  by  opposition,  choked  in  blood,  crushed  under 
the  gravestone,  at  length  commanded  the  attention,  if  not  yet 
the  obedience  of  the  world  ?  Let  no  one  say  in  despair,  "  I 
am  but  one ;"  in  his  unity,  as  in  the  unity  of  a  sword,  lies  his 


JONAH.  1^9 

might — if  his  metal  be  true,  his  singleness  is  strength — he 
may  be  multiplied,  indeed,  but  he  can  not  be  divided.  Minor- 
ities, and  minorities  of  one,  generally  do  the  real  work  of  man- 
kind. 

The  last  scene  of  Jonah's  history  partakes  of  the  same  mar- 
velous character  with  the  rest.  God  determines  to  spare  the 
city,  at  its  crying.  Jonah  is  angry.  His  occupation  is  gone 
• — his  character  for  veracity  is  impeached — he  has  become  a 
false  prophet — better  have  been  rolhng  in  the  deep  still,  than  to 
face  the  people  of  Nineveh  when  the  forty  days  are  past.  He 
is  angry,  and  he  wishes  to  die — to  die,  because  millions  are  not ! 
Expecting  the  destruction  of  the  city  by  earthquake  or  flame 
from  heaven,  he  had  gone  out  from  it,  and  erected  a  booth  or 
shelter,  to  screen  his  head  from  the  sun ;  and  he  is  there  when 
he  hears  of  the  respite  granted  to  the  city.  A  fiercer  fire  than 
the  sun's  is  now  kindled  in  his  heart ;  and,  mingling  with  the 
-heat  which  the  booth  imperfectly  alleviates,  it  drives  him  al- 
most to  frenzy.  He  assails  Omnipotence  with  savage  irony. 
In  answer,  God  prepares  a  large  gourd,  or  species  of  palm, 
which  springs  up  like  an  exhalation,  and  steeps  his  head  with 
grateful  coolness.  Jonah  is  glad  of  it ;  it  somewhat  mollifies 
his  indignant  feelings,  and  under  its  shadow  he  sinks  into  re- 
pose. He  awakes  ;  the  morning  has  risen  like  a  furnace,  but 
the  gourd  is  withered  ;  a  worm  has  destroyed  it,  its  cool  shade 
is  gone,  and  the  arid  leaves  seem  of  fire,  as  they  bend  above 
his  head,  in  a  vehement  but  dry  east  wind  which  has  sprung 
up.  He  faints,  partly  in  pain,  and  partly  in  sorrow  because  of 
the  green  and  beautiful  plant,  and  renews,  in  bitterer  accents, 
his  yesterday's  cry,  "  It  were  better  for  me  to  die  than  to  live." 
Slowly  there  drop  down  upon  him,  from  heaven,  the  words, 
"  Dost  thou  well  to  be  angry  for  the  gourd  ?"  and  he  answers, 
in  the  quick  accents  of  despite  and  fury,  "  I  do  well  to  be 
angry,  even  unto  death !  Be  angry,  yea,  I  could  die  for  my 
gourd."  "Then,  said  the  Lord,  thou  hast  had  pity  on  the 
plant,  for  which  thou  hast  not  labored,  neither  madest  it 
grow,  whieh  in  a  night  rose,  and  in  a  night  perished  (which 


180  JONAH. 

was  not  thine,  and  wliicli  only  for  a  few  hours  was  with  thee) 
And  should  not  I  have  mercy  on  that  great  city,  Nineveh, 
wherein  are  more  than  sixscore  thousand  persons,  who  can  not 
discern  between  their  right  hand  and  left  hand  (innocent  as 
the  gourd  itself!),  and  also  much  cattle  (poor  dumb  ones)  1" 
And  there,  to  the  imagination,  still  sits  the  stunned  and  down- 
cast prophet,  the  great  city  in  sight,  and  shining  in  the  sun — 
the  low  of  hundreds  of  cattle  in  his  ears— the  bitter  wind  in 
his  eyes  and  in  his  hair — disappointment  and  chagrin  in  his 
heart — and,  hanging  over  his  naked  head,  the  fragments  of  the 
withered  plant.  Who  would  care  to  go  and  to  sit  down  along 
with  him  ? 

And  yet  not  a  few  have  gone,  and  sat  beside  Jonah  under 
that  shade  of  tattered  fire !  The  fierce,  hopeless  infidel,  who 
would  like  Cain  kill  his  brother,  because  he  can  not  comprehend 
his  God ;  the  dogmatist,  who  has  learned  his  "  lesson  of  despair" 
so  thoroughly,  that  the  ease  with  which  he  recites  it  seems  a 
voucher  for  its  truth  ;  the  gloomy  Christian,  who  lingers  many 
a  needless  hour  around  the  skirts  of  Sinai,  instead  of  seeing  its 
summits  sinking  afar  off  in  the  distance  ;  the  victim  of  vanity 
and  disappointment,  who  has  confounded  his  voice  and  identi- 
fied its  rejection,  with  the  voice  and  the  rejection  of  God ;  the 
misanthrope,  who  says,  "  Would  that  all  men  were  liars  ;"  and 
the  fanatic,  who  grieves  that  the  heavens  do  not  respond  to  his 
vindictive  feelings,  and  leave  him  and  his  party  standing  alone 
in  the  solitude  which  the  race  has  left ;  such,  and  others,  have 
partaken  of  the  momentary  madness,  and  shared  in  the  dreary 
shelter  of  the  prophet. 

He,  we  trust,  arose  from  under  the  gourd,  and  humbled, 
melted,  instructed,  resumed  the  grand  functions  of  his  office.  It 
is  of  comparatively  little  moment  whether  he  did  or  not,  as  the 
principles  inscribed  on  his  prophecy  remain  in  any  case  the 
same.  These  are,  first,  to  fly  from  duty  is  to  fly  to  danger ; 
secondly,  deliverance  from  danger  often  conducts  to  new  and 
tenfold  perils,  and  involves  tenfold  responsibilities ;  thirdly,  a 
duty  delayed  is  a  duty  doubled ;  fourthly,  the  one  voice  of  an 


AMOS.  181 

earnest  man  is  a  match  for  millions  ;  fifthly,  an  error  in  the 
truest  prophet  can  degrade  his  character,  and  cast  a  shade  of 
doubt  upon  his  name ;  and  sixthly,  God  would  rather  lower  the 
good  report  of  any  of  his  messengers,  than  endanger  one  syl- 
lable of  his  own  recorded  name,  "  The  Lord  God,  merciful  and 
gracious,  long-suffering,  and  slow  to  anger." 

AMOS. 

This  prophet  lived  nearly  800  years  before  Cnnst.  While 
employed  as  an  herdsman,  he  was  summoned  to  lift  up  his  voice 
against  Israel.  Driven  from  Bethel,  by  the  calumnies  of  the 
idolatrous  priest  Amaziah,  he  fled  to  Tekbah,  a  small  town  ten, 
miles  south  of  Jerusalem ;  and  afterward,  we  hear  of  him  no 
more. 

As  Burns  among  the  poets,  is  Amos  among  the  prophets. 
Few,  indeed,  of  that  company  could  be  called  cultured ;  but 
Amos  was  especially  destitute  of  training.  He  comes  straight 
from  the  cattle-stall  and  the  solitary  pasture.  A  strong  bull  of 
Bashan,  he  leaps  in,  "  two  years  before  the  earthquake,"  and 
bellows  out,  "  The  Lord  will  roar  from  Zion,  and  utter  his  voice 
from  Jerusalem."  He  turns  his  first  fury  upon  the  neighbor- 
ing idolatrous  nations ;  and  short,  deep,  decisive,  are  the  crashes 
of  his  thunder  against  Damascus,  Gaza,  Tyrus,  Edom,  Amnion, 
and  Moab.  His  burdens  are  only  words  ;  but  they  are  words 
of  doom.  A  nation  falls  in  every  sentence.  "  I  will  send  a  fire 
into  the  house  of  Hazael — a  fire  on  the  wall  of  Gaza — a  fire  on 
the  palaces  of  Tyrus — a  fire  upon  Teman — a  fire  in  the  wall  of 
Kabbah."  And  having  flung  those  forked  flashes  at  the  neigh- 
boring nations',  he  pours  out  on  Judah  and  Israel  his  full  and 
overflowing  ire.  Israel,  at  the  time  of  Amos,  had  partially  re- 
covered its  ancient  possessions  and  grandeur,  and  more  than  its 
ancient  pride,  injustice,  and  luxury.  It  required  to  be  startled 
from  its  sel6sh  dream,  by  the  rude  cries  of  this  holy  herdsman, 
whose  utterances  are  abrupt,  unvaried,  and  laconic,  as  midnight 
alarms  of  fire.     Ceremony  there  is  none  with  Amos.    Nor,  like 


1S2  AMOS. 

some  of  his  brethren,  does  he  ever  indulge  in  long  and  swelling 
passages,  whether  of  allegory  or  description.  His  prophecy  is 
principally  composed  of  short  threatenings,  short  prayers,  sud- 
den exclamations,  and,  above  all,  startling  questions.  "Pre- 
pare to  meet  thy  God,  O  Israel."  "  Woe  unto  you  who  desire 
the  day  of  the  Lord  !  that  day  is  darkness  and  not  light."  "  I 
hate  and  despise  your  feast-days."  "  Take  away  from  me  the 
noise  of  your  songs."  "  In  all  vineyards  shall  be  waihng,  for 
I  will  pass  through  thee,  saith  the  Lord."  But  interrogation  is 
his  power.  He  is  like  a  stranger  from  the  country  asking  his 
way  through  a  city.  But  his  questions  are  rather  those  of  in- 
dignation than  of  surprise.  Thus  he  sounds  on  his  wild  uneven 
path  : — ^"  Can  two  walk  together  except  they  be  agreed  ?"  "  Shall 
there  be  evil  in  the  city,  and  the  Lord  hath  not  done  it?" 
"  The  lion  hath  roared,  who  will  not  fear  ?"  "  The  Lord  hath 
spoken,  who  can  but  prophesy  ?"  "  Shall  horses  run  upon  the 
rock  ?"  "  Are  ye  not  as  the  children  of  Ethiopia  unto  me,  0 
children  of  Israel,  saith  the  Lord  God  ?" 

The  imagery  of  Amos  is  generally  pastoral,  and  comes  in,  like 
a  cool  breeze  from  Bashan,  to  temper  the  ardor  of  his  pro- 
phetic vein.  The  bird,  the  lion  from  whose  mouth  the  shep- 
herd rescues  two  legs  or  the  piece  of  ^n  ear,  the  bear  meeting 
the  man  who  has  escaped  the  hon,  the  kine  of  Bashan,  the  vine- 
yards where  he  had  often  gathered  fruit,  the  seven  stars  and 
Orion  which  he  had  often  watched  from  his  midnight  fields,  the 
plowman  overtaking  the  reaper,  and  the  gatherer  of  grapes, 
the  sower  of  seed — proclaim  his  original  habits  and  associations. 
Two  of  the  principal  types  employed  are  selected  from  the 
scenery  of  the  country — the  grasshoppers,  in  the  7th,  and  the 
basket  of  summer-fruit,  in  the  8th  chapter.  In  like  manner,  the 
future  prosperity  of  Israel  is  represented  by  a  rural  image.  "  I 
will  bring  again  the  captivity  of  my  people  Israel ;  and  they 
shall  plant  vineyards,  and  drink  the  wine  thereof,  and  they  shall 
make  gardens,  and  eat  the  fruit  of  them." 

There  are  besides,  in  Amos,  certain  brief  and  bold  sublimities, 
which  class  his  genius  with  that  of  the  best  of  the  lesser  pro- 


AMOS.  183 

pbets.  Such,  in  the  9th  chapter,  is  the  vision  of  the  Lord  stand- 
ing upon  the  altar,  and  proclaiming  the  inextricable  dilemmas 
into  which  Israel's  crimes  had  led  them.  In  all  Scripture 
occur  no  more  powerful  antitheses  than  the  following  : — "  He 
that  fleeth  of  them  shall  not  flee  away ;  he  that  escapeth  of 
them  shall  not  escape  (into  safety).  If  they  dig  down  into 
Sheol,  thence  shall  mine  hand  take  them.  If  they  climb  up 
into  heaven,  then  shall  I  bring  them  down.  If  they  hide  them- 
selves in  the  top  of  Carmel,  I  will  search  for,  and  thence  will  I 
take  them  out.  And  if  they  hide  themselves  from  mine  eyes, 
in  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  thence  will  I  command  the  serpent, 
and  he  shall  bite  them.  If  they  go  into  captivity  before  their 
enemies,  there  will  I  command  the  sword,  and  it  shall  slay 
them,  and  I  will  set  mine  eyes  upon  them  for  evil,  and  not  for 
good."  How  the  divine  omnipresence  here  rolls  itself  around 
the  victims  of  the  divine  anger  !  In  the  139th  Psalm,  the  poet 
wishes  to  escape  from  the  Spirit  of  God,  as  from  a  thought  too 
strange  and  overwhelming  for  him  ;  but  here,  Israel  would  seek 
escape  from  him,  as  he  might  from  the  center  of  a  forest  of  fire, 
but  is  doomed  forever  to  seek  it  in  vain.  An  historian  has 
given  an  animated  description  of  the  impossibility  of  escape 
which  beset  the  steps  of  the  fugitive  from  the  power  of  the 
Roman  Emperor.  If  he  crossed  the  Alps,  that  power  was 
before  Jiim  ;  if  he  crossed  the  ocean,  it  was  waiting  for  him 
on  the  shore  ;  and  the  tropic  or  the  frigid  zone  was  equally 
unable  to  hide  him  from  its  Briarean  grasp.  Still,  there  re- 
mained for  him  an  avenue  of  deliverance.  He  might  plunge 
into  the  sea,  or  turn  his  sword  against  his  own  bowels,  or  pledge 
his  oppressor  in  poison.  But  for  the  object  of  the  just  ven- 
geance of  Jehovah,  there  lay  no  such  way  of  escape  ;  he  could 
not  thus  set  his  foe  at  defiance.  The  sea  w^ould  say,  "  It  is 
not  in  me ;"  Sheol  (or  Hades)  would  re-echo  the  cry ;  if  he 
dropped  into  the  arms  of  death,  they  would  but  hand  him  into 
those  of  Death's  King  ;  and  if  he  sought  to  mount  to  heaven, 
this  were  to  flee  into  the  metropolis  of  his  foe.  Other  worlds 
were  barred  against  him ;  or  even  were  their  barriers  broken, 


184  AMOS. 

this  were  only  to  take  down  the  palisades  which  blocked  the 
way  of  his  perdition.  The  Universe  was  transfigured  into 
a  menacing  shape,  fronting  the  criminal  with  a  face  of  fire,  and 
stretching  out  on  all  sides  its  myriad  starry  hands,  to  arrest  his 
retreat,  or  to  shed  down  dismay  upon  his  guilty  soul. 

Thus,  too,  we  may,  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  spirit  of 
Amos,  adumbrate  not  only  the  idea  of  God's  personal  presence, 
but  of  the  presence  of  his  laws.  These,  as  well  as  his  eye, 
never  slumber,  and  never  sleep :  they  flame  on,  like  chariot 
lamps,  through  the  thickest  darkness  ;  they  people  the  remotest 
solitudes,  and  the  heather  bloom  which  drops  there,  and  the 
httle  stream  which  gurgles — the  one  drops,  and  the  other 
gurgles  to  their  severe  melody.  The  thought  of  this  banishes 
solitude  from  the  creation.  "  How  can  I  be  alone,  when  the 
Father  is  with  me,"  and  when  all  the  principles  which  regulate 
suns,  are  here — on  this  quaking  bog,  this  peak  of  snow,  this 
crag  of  ocean  ?  Nay,  these  omnipresent  laws,  in  their  moral 
form,  are  found  in  far  drearier  and  darker  places  than  the  dens 
of  serpents  or  of  lions.  They  exist  in  evil  hearts,  in  polluted 
consciences,  in  the  abodes  of  uttermost  infamy.  Innocent  as 
the  water  and  the  bread  which  are  there,  pure  as  the  light 
which  shines  there,  yet  terrible  as  the  conscience  which  often 
there  awakens,  do  the  laws  of  God's  moral  government  there 
stand,  and  exercise  a  real,  a  felt,  though  a  disputed,  sovereignty 
— the  dawning  of  their  full  and  final  power.  "  Whither  can 
men  go  from  their  presence  ?"  It  is  not  the  spirit  of  earthly 
law  which  a  great  writer  has  so  powerfully  painted  ;  it  is  the 
spirit  of  universal  righteousness  which  invisibly  thus  hovers, 
and  quells  even  those  who  doubt  or  disbelieve  the  righteous 
One.  "Ascend  we  heaven,  they  are  there,"  for  it  is  these 
which  constitute  our  entire  knowledge  of  the  stars  ;  these  bind 
all  worlds  into  one  ;  and  he  who  has  adequately  ascertained  the 
laws  of  his  own  fire,  has  only  to  blow  its  flame  broader,  to  de- 
cipher the  laws  of  the  "  burning,  fiery  furnace"  of  the  midnight 
heavens.  Ye  silent,  steadfast,  perpetual  principles,  so  slow,  yet 
swift — so  stern,  yet  merciful — so  low,  yet  so  loud  in  tone — so  uii- 


AMOS.  185 

assuming,  and  so  omnipotent — so  simple  in  your  roots,  and  so 
complicated  in  your  branches — we  might  sing  peans  and  build 
altars  in  your  worship,  were  it  not  that  we  have  been  taught, 
and  taught  specially  by  those  Hebrew  poets,  to  see,  behind  and 
within  you,  one  living  spirit,  God  over  all,  blessed  forever, 
your  never-failing  fountain,  your  ever-open  ocean,  and  have 
been  taught  to  sing — 

"  Father  of  all,  we  bow  to  thee, 
Who  dwell'st  in  heaven  adored, 
But  present  still,  through  all  thy  works, 
The  universal  Lord." 

Amos  has  had  a  singular  destiny  among  his  fellows.  Many 
herdsmen  tended  cattle  in  Tekoah,  or  gathered  fruit  from  its 
sycamore-trees,  but  on  him  alone  lighted  the  spirit  of  inspi- 
ration. It  came  to  him  as,  like  Elisha,  he  was  employed  in  his 
peaceful  toil ;  it  hurried  him  to  duty  and  to  danger  ;  it  made 
him  a  power  among  the  moral  princes  of  the  land  ;  it  gave  his 
name  and  his  prophecy  a  place  in  an  immortal  volume  ;  and 
from  gathering  sycamore  fruit,  it  promoted  him  to  stand  below 
the  "  tree  of  life,"  to  pluck  from  it,  and  to  distribute  to  after- 
ages  not  a  few  clusters,  as  fair  as  they  are  nutritious,  of  its 
celestial  fruit.  All  honor  to  the  bold  herdsman  of  Tekoah  ! 
Nor  can  we  close,  without  alluding  again  to  the  unhappy  poet 
whose  name  we  coupled  with  his  at  the  beginning — who  left 
the  plow,  not  at  the  voice  of  a  divine,  but  of  an  earthly  im- 
pulse— whose  snatches  of  truth,  and  wisdom,  and  virtuous  sen- 
timent, were  neutrahzed  by  counter  strains  of  coarse  and  ribald 
debauchery — who  struggled  all  his  life  between  light,  which 
amounted  to  noon,  and  darkness,  which  was  midnight — who  tore 
and  tarnished  with  his  own  hand  the  garland  of  beauty  he  had 
woven  for  the  brow  of  his  native  land — whose  name,  broader  in 
his  country's  literature  than  that  of  Amos  in  his,  is  broadened 
by  the  blots  which  surrounded,  as  well  as  by  the  beauties  which 
adorned  it — and  of  whom,  much  as  we  admire  his  genius  and 
the  many  manly  qualities  of  his  character,  we  are  prone  to  say, 


186  HOSEA. 

Pity  for  his  own  sake  and  his  country's,  that  he  had  not  tarried 
"  behind  his  plow  on  the  mountain-side,"  for  then,  if  his 
"  g^ory"  had  been  less,  his  "joy"  had  been  greater,  or,  if  ruined, 
he  at  least  had  "  fallen  alone  in  his  iniquity." 

HOSEA. 

This  prophet  seems  to  have  uttered  his  predictions  seven  or 
eight  hundred  years  before  Christ.  He  was  a  son  of  Beeri, 
and  lived  in  Samaria.  He  was  cotemporary  with  Isaiah,  and 
prophesied  nearly  at  the  same  time  with  Joel.  He  is  "  placed," 
says  an  eminent  critic,  "  first  among  the  twelve  minor  prophets, 
probably  because  of  the  peculiarly  national  character  which  be- 
longs to  his  oracles." 

Hosea  is  the  first  of  the  prophets  who  confines  his  ire  within 
the  circle  of  his  own  country  ;  not  a  drop  spills  beyond.  One 
thought  fills  his  whole  soul  and  prophecy — the  thought  of  Israel 
and  Judah's  estrangement  from  God,  and  how  they  may  be.  re- 
stored. This  occupies  him  like  a  passion,  and,  like  all  great 
passions,  refuses  to  be  divided.  He  broods,  he  yearns,  his 
"  bowels  sound  like  a  harp"  over  his  native  land.  To  her,  his 
genius  is  consecrated  "  a  whole  burnt-offering" — to  her,  his 
domestic  happiness  is  surrendered  in  the  unparalleled  sacrifice  of 
the  first  chapter.  And  how  his  heart  tosses  to  and  f];o,  between 
stern  and  soft  emotions,  toward  Ephraim,  as  between  conflicting 
winds  !  At  one  time,  he  is  to  be  as  a  "  lion  unto  Ephraim  ;  he 
is  to  tear,  and  to  go  away ;"  but  again  he  cries  out — "  How 
shall  I  give  thee  up,  Ephraim?  I  will  not  execute  my  fierce 
anger ;  I  will  not  turn  to  destroy  Ephraim  utter/y."  Indeed, 
the  great  interest  of  the  book  s|)rings  from  the  vibrations  of  the 
balance  in  which  the  nation  hangs,  rising  now  high  as  heaven, 
and  now  sinking  as  low  as  hell,  till  at  last  it  settles  into  the 
calm,  bright  equilibrium  in  which  the  last  beautiful  chapter 
leaves  it.  The  prophecy  may  be  compared  to  a  water-fall 
which  tears  and  bruises  its  way,  am.id  spray  and  rainbows, 
through  a  dark  gulley,  and  gains,  with  difiiculty,  a  placid  pool 


HOSEA.  187 

at  the  base,  where  it  sleeps  a  sleep  like  the  first  sleep  after 
torture. 

Abruptness  characterizes  Hosea  as  well  as  Araos ;  but,  while 
in  Amos  it  is  the  fruit  of  haste  and  rural  habit,  in  Hosea  it 
springs  from  his  impassioned  earnestness.  He  is  not  only  full, 
but  choked  at  times  with  the  fury  of  the  Lord.  Hence  his 
broken  metaphors ;  his  sentences  begun,  but  never  ended  ;  his 
irregular  rhythm  ;  his  peculiar  idioms  ;  the  hurry  with  which  he 
leaps  from  topic  to  topic,  from  feeling  to  feeling,  and  from  one 
form  of  speech  to  another.  The  flowers  he  plucks  are  very 
beautiful,  but  seem  to  be  snatched  without  selection,  and  almost 
without  perception  of  their  beauty,  as  he  pursues  his  rapid  way. 
A  sublime  incoherence  distinguishes  his  prophecy  even  more 
than  those  of  the  other  prophets.  His  passages  and  sentences 
have  only  the  unity  of  earnestness,  such  a  unity  as  the  wind 
gives  to  the  disconnected  trees  of  the  forest.  From  this,  and 
his  other  peculiarities,  arises  a  great  and  frequent  obscurity. 
He  is  like  a  man  bursting  through  a  deep  wood ;  this  moment 
he  is  lost  behind  a  tree  trunk,  and  the  next  he  emerges  into  the 
opea  space.  But,  perhaps,  none  of  the  prophets  has,  within 
the  same  compass,  included  such  a  multitude  of  short,  memo- 
rable, and  figurative  sentences.  His  coin  is  minute  in  size,  but 
at  once  precious  and  abundant. 

What  texts  for  texts  are  the  following  : — "My  people  are  de- 
stroyed, or  cut  off  for  lack  of  knowledge."  "  Ephraim  is  joined 
to  idols;  let  him  alone."  "O,  Ephraim,  what  shall  I  do  unto 
thee  ?  your  goodness  is  as  the  morning  cloud,  and  as  the  early 
dew."  "  Ephraim  is  a  cake  not  turned."  "  Gray  hairs  are 
sprinkled  or  dispersed  upon  him,  and  he  knoweth  it  not." 
"  They  have  sown  the  wind,  and  they  shall  reap  the  whirl- 
wind. As  for  Samaria,  her  king  is  cut  off  like  foam  upon  the 
water."  "  They  shall  say  to  the  mountains.  Cover  us,  and  to 
the  hills,  Fall  on  us."  "  I  drew  them  with  the  cords  of  a  man, 
with  the  bands  of  love."  "  I  gave  them  a  king  in  mine  anger, 
and  I  will  take  him  away  in  my  wrath."  "  O,  death,  where  is 
thy  triumph  ?  O,  grave,  where  thy  destruction  2"   "  I  will  be  as 


188  HOSEA. 

the  dew  unto  Israel."  "  What  hatli  Ephraim  any  more  to  do 
with  idols  ?"  We  see  many  of  our  readers  starting  at  the  sight 
of  those  old  femiliar  faces,  which  have  so  often  shone  on  them, 
in  pulpits,  and  from  books,  but  which  they  have  never  traced 
till  now  to  Hosea's  rugged  page.  He  is,  we  fear,  the  least  read 
of  all  the  prophets. 

And  yet,  surely,  if  the  beginning  of  his  prediction  somewhat 
repel,  the  close  of  it  should  enchain  every  reader.  It  is  the 
sweetest,  roundest,  most  unexpected,  of  the  prophetic  perora- 
tions. All  his  woes,  warnings,  struggles,  hard  obscurities,  and 
harsh  ellipses  and  transitions,  are  melted  down  in  a  strain  of 
music,  partly  pensive,  and  partly  joyous,  fresh  as  if  it  rose  from 
earth,  and  aerial  as  if  it  descended  from  heaven.  The  contro- 
versies of  the  book  are  now  ended  ;  its  contradictions  reconciled 
— the  balance  sleeps  in  still  light ;  God  and  his  people  are  at 
length  made  one,  through  the  gracious  medium  of  pardoning 
love;  the  ornaments  lavished  on  the  bridal  might  befit  that 
future  and  final  "  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky,"  of  which  it  is 
the  type  and  the  pledge  ;  and  the  music  might  be  that  which 
shall  salute  the  "  Lamb's  wife."  Hear  a  part  of  it.  "  I  will 
heal  their  backslidings,  I  will  love  them  freely,  for  mine  anger 
is  turned  away  from  them.  I  will  be  as  the  dew  unto  Israel 
He  shall  blossom  as  the  lily,  he  shall  strike  his  roots  as  Leb- 
anon. His  branches  shall  spread,  his  glory  shall  be  as  the  olive 
tree,  and  his  smell  as  Lebanon.  They  that  sit  under  his  shadow 
shall  return ;  they  shall  revive  as  corn  ;  they  shall  break  forth 
as  the  vine  ;  the  scent  thereof  shall  be  as  the  wine  of  Lebanon." 

Softest  of  all  droppings,  are  the  last  droppings  from  a  thun- 
der-cloud, which  the  sun  has  brightened,  and  the  rainbow^  bound. 
Smoothest  of  all  leaves,  are  the  "  high  leaves"  upon  the  holly- 
tree.  And  soft  and  smooth  as  these  droj^pings  and  leaves, 
are  the  last  words  of  the  stern  Hosea,  whom  otherwise  we 
might  have  called  a  half  Ezekiel,  possessing  his  passion  and 
vehemence  ;  while  Zechariah  shall  reflect  the  shadowy  portion 
of  his  orb,  and  be  nearly  as  mystic,  typical,  and  unsearchable 
in  manner  and  in  meaning,  as  the  son  of  Buzi. 


JOEL.  189 


JOEL 


Stands  fourth  in  the  cataloo-ne  of  the  minor  bards.  Nothino- 
"whatever  is  known  of  him,  except  that  he  seems  to  have  been 
of  the  tribe  of  Judah,  and  that  he  prophesied  between  seven 
and  eight  hundred  years  before  Christ. 

Gloomy  grandeur  is  this  bard's  style  ;  desolation,  mourning, 
and  woe,  are  the  substance  of  his  prophecy.  Its  hero  is  the 
locust,  winging  his  way  to  the  fields  predestined  for  his  ravages. 
We  can  suppose  Joel,  the  pale  yet  bold  rider  of  one  of  those 
shapes  in  the  Revelations,  "  Locusts  like  unto  horses  prepared 
unto  battle  ;  on  their  heads  crowns  of  gold,  their  faces  as  the 
faces  of  men,  their  hair  as  the  hair  of  women,  their  teeth  as  the 
teeth  of  lions,  with  breastplates  of  iron,  and  the  sound  of  their 
wings  as  the  sound  of  many  horses  and  chariots  running  to 
battle."  And  hark  !  how  he  spurs,  instead  of  restraining,  his 
terrible  courser,  crying  out,  "  The  day  of  Jehovah  cometh  ;  it 
is  near.  A  day  of  darkness  and  of  gloominess,  a  day  of  cloud 
and  of  thick  darkness.  As  the  dusk  before  the  dawn  spread 
upon  the  mountains,  cometh  a  great  people  and  a  strong ;  there 
hath  never  been  the  like  of  old,  nor  shall  be  any  more  forever. 
A  fire  devoureth  before  them,  and  behind  a  flame  consumeth ; 
the  land  before  them  is  as  the  Garden  of  Eden,  and  behind 
them  a  desolate  wilderness  ;  yea,  and  nothing  shall  escape 
them."  So  black  and  broad,  as  if  cast  from  the  shadow  of  a 
fallen  angel's  wings,  is  the  ruin  predicted  by  Joel. 

These  locusts  have  a  king  and  a  leader,  and,  in  daring  con- 
sistency with  his  own  and  his  country's  genius,  he  constitutes 
that  leader  the  Lord.  They  are  his  "  great  camp,"  his  "  army," 
they  march  at  his  command  straightforward;  with  them  he 
darkens  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  with  them,  "  warping  on  the 
eastern  wind,"  he  bedims  the  sun  and  the  stars.  These  innu- 
merous,  incessant,  and  irresistible  insects  form  the  lowest,  but 
not  the  least  terrible  of  those  incarnations  of  God,  which  the 
imagination  of  the  Jew  delighted  to  create  and  the  song  of  the 
prophet  to  describe.     JSfow^  the  philosopher  seldom  personifies 


190  JOEL. 

even  the  universe  ;  'tis  but  a  great  and  glorious  It  ;  but  then, 
each  beautiful,  or  dire,  or  strange  shape  passing  over  the  earth, 
or  through  the  heavens — the  shower,  the  rainbow,  the  "whirl- 
wind, the  locust-troop,  the  mildew,  the  blight — was  God's 
movable  tent,  the  place  where,  for  a  season,  his  honor,  his 
beauty,  his  strength,  and  his  justice  dwelt,  the  tenant  not  de- 
graded, and  inconceivable  dignity  being  added  to  the  abode. 

Promises  of  physical  plenty  alternate,  in  Joel,  with  threaten- 
ings  of  physical  destruction.  And  rich  are  the  years  of  plenty 
■which  he  predicts  to  succeed  those  of  famine.  "  O  ye  children 
of  Zion,  be  glad  in  Jehovah  your  God  ;  for  he  giveth  you  the 
former  rain  in  measure,  and  will  cause  the  former  and  the  latter 
rain  to  come  down  on  you  as  aforetime.  And  the  floor  shall 
be  full  of  wheat,  and  the  vats  shall  overflow  with  wine  and  oil. 
And  I  will  restore  to  you  the  years  which  the  locusts  have 
eaten — my  great  army  which  I  have  sent  unto  you.  And  ye 
shall  eat  in  plenty,  and  be  satisfied  ;  and  shall  praise  the  name 
of  Jehovah  your  God."  Such  smooth  and  lovely  strains  seem 
less  congenial,  however,  to  Joel's  genius  than  is  the  progress  of 
the  destroyers.  Into  that  he  throws  his  whole  soul.  The 
"  sheaf "  of  plenty  he  bears  artistically  and  w^ell ;  but  he  be- 
comes the  "  locust,"  as  he  leads  him  forth  to  his  dark  and  silent 
battle. 

But  there  are  still  nobler  passages  than  this  in  Joel's  .pro- 
phecy. As  the  blackness  of  a  cloud  of  doom  to  that  of  a  swarm 
of  locusts,  is  Joel's  description  of  the  one  to  his  description  of 
the  other.  There  are  two  or  three  passages  in  his  prophecy 
which,  like  the  dove  of  the  deluge,  "  can  find  no  rest  for  the 
sole  of  their  feet,"  till  they  reach  the  cliff's  of  final  judgment 
Touch,  indeed,  one  does,  for  a  moment,  upon  the  roof  of  that 
"  one  place,"  where  Peter,  inflamed  beneath  the  fiery  Pentecost, 
is  preaching  to  the  disciples  ;  but  ere  the  speaker  has  closed,  he 
has  risen  and  soared  away  toward  a  higher  house,  and  a  far  disr 
tant  age.  Another  and  fuller  accomplishment  there  must  be 
for  the  words,  "  I  will  show  wonders  in  the  heavens,  and  in  the 
earth,  blood,  and  fire,  and  pillars  of  smoke.     The  sun  shall  be 


JOEL.  191 

turned  into  darkness,  and  the  moon  into  blood,  before  tbe  great 
and  terrible  day  of  Jehovah  come."  Nothing,  save  the  great 
last  day,  can  fill  up  the  entire  sphere  of  this  description.  That 
there  is  what  we  may  call  a  strange  and  mysterious  sympathy 
between  the  various  lines  of  the  divine  procedure — that  when 
God's  providence  smiles,  his  works  in  nature  often  return  smile 
for  smile — and  that  when  his  moral  procedure  is  frowning,  his 
material  framework  becomes  cloudy,  threatening,  and  abnormal, 
too,  seems  proved  by  facts,  as  well  as  consistent  with  the  dictates 
of  true  philosophy  ;  for  although  there  be  those  who  stand 
cowering  heloio  such  singular  correspondences  with  the  vulgar, 
and  those  who  stand  ahove  them,  like  angelic  creatures,  and 
those  who  stand  cqmrt  from  them,  as  they  do  from  all  strange 
and  beautiful  phenomena,  like  the  minions  of  mathematics  and 
the  slaves  to  a  shallow  logic,  there  may  be  those  who  can  stand 
on  their  level  and  beside  them,  and  see  all  God's  works  reflect- 
ing, and  hear  them  responding  to,  and  feel  them  sympathizing 
with,  each  other.  And  that,  when  God  shall  close  our  present 
economy,  and  introduce  his  nobler  and  his  last,  this  may  be  an- 
nounced in  the  aspects  of  nature,  as  well  as  of  society — that  the 
heaven  may  blush,  and  the  earth  tremble,  before  the  face  of 
their  king — that  there  shall  be  visible  signs  and  wonders — 
seems  at  once  philosophically  hkely,  and  Scripturally  certain. 
An  earthquake  shook  the  cross,  darkness  bathed  the  brow  of 
the  crucified,  the  rocks  were  rent,  and  the  graves  were  opened. 
Jerusalem,  ere  its  fall,  was  not  only  compassed,  but  canopied, 
with  armies.  A  little  time  before  the  French  Revolution  there 
is  peace  on  earth  ;  is  there  peace  in  heaven  ?  No  ;  night  after 
night,  the  sky  is  bathed  in  blood — blood  finding  a  fearful  com- 
ment in  the  wars  which  folio v/ed,  in  which  France  alone  counted 
her  five  millions  of  slain — a  "  sign  of  the  times,"  which  did  not 
escape  the  eye  of  Cowper,  as  his  "  Task"  testifies.  Since  then, 
once  and  again,  pestilence  and  civil  convulsion  have  danced 
down  together  their  dance  of  death,  and  their  ball-room  has 
been  lighted  up  by  meteors,  which  science  knew  not,  nor  could 
explain.     But  what  imagination  can  conceive  of  those  appear- 


192  JOEL. 

ances  which  shall  precede  or  accompany  the  coming  of  God's 
Son,  and  the  establishment  of  his  kingdom  ?  Let  the  pictures, 
bj  Joel,  by  John,  and,  at  a  fiir  off  distance,  by  Pollok,  reraaia 
as  alone  approximating  to  the  sublimity  of  those  rehearsals  of 
doom.  Be  it  that  they  are  from  the  pencils  of  poets,  surely 
poets  are  fitting  heralds  to  proclaim  the  rising  of  those  two 
new  poems  of  God — the  New  Heaven,  and  the  New  Earth  ; 
and  is  not  the  language  of  one  of  themselves  as  true  as  it  is 
striking — 

"  A  terrible  sagacity  informg 
The  poet's  heart,  he  looks  to  distant  storms, 
He  hears  the  thunder,  ere  the  tempest  lowers." 

A  kindred  event  in  the  future  lies  obscurely  upon  Joel's  page. 
It  is  the  "last  conflict  of  great  principles."  That  this  is  the 
burden  of  the  3d  chapter,  it  seems  difficult  to  deny.  Through 
its  fluctuating  mist,  there  is  dim-discovered  the  outline  of  a 
battle-field,  where  a  cause — the  cause  of  the  world — is  to  be 
fought,  fought  finally,  and  to  the  watchword,  "  Victory  or 
death."  Nothing  can  be  more  magnificent  than  the  picture, 
colored  though  it  be  by  Jewish  associations  and  images.  The 
object  of  the  fight  is  the  restoration  of  Judah  to  its  former  free- 
dom and  power.  For  this,  have  its  scattered  members  been 
gathered,  organized,  and  brought  back  to  their  own  land.  God 
has  gathered  them,  but  he  has  also,  for  purposes  of  his  own,  to 
use  prophetic  language,  "  hissed"  for  their  enemies,  from  all 
nations,  to  oppose  them  on  the  threshold  of  their  triumph.  The 
valley  of  decision  or  excision  is  that  of  Jehoshaphat,  the  deep  glen 
lying  between  Jerusalem  and  the  Mount  of  Olives,  and  which 
is  watered  by  the  brook  Kedron.  There  "  multitudes,  multi- 
tudes," are  convened  for  the  final  issue.  The  field  has  been 
darkened,  and  over  those  multitudes  a  canopy  expands,  xx^- 
lighted  by  sun,  moon,  or  stars.  Under  this  black  sky,  the  sea 
of  heathen  fury  and  numbers  is  advancing,  and  the  people  of 
God  are,  in  deep  suspense  and  silence,  awaiting  its  first  break- 
ing billow.     The  contest  at  last  begins,  when  lo !  there  is  a 


JOEL.  193 

glare  on  Olivet,  ^^'hich  sliows  also  the  whole  expanse  of  Je- 
hoshaphat's  valley,  and  also  the  faces  of  the  foemen,  as  they 
draw  nigh ;  and  hark  !  there  is  a  voice  from  Zion  which  shakes 
earth  and  heaven,  and  tells  that  the  delivery  is  near ;  and  then, 
between  Olivet  and  Jerusalem,  and  hanging  high  over  the  nar- 
row vale,  appears  the  Lord  himself,  "  the  hope  of  his  people, 
and  the  stronghold  of  the  children  of  Israel."  And  as  the  re- 
sult of  this  sudden  intervention,  when  the  fight  is  decided,  "  the 
mountains  drop  down  sweet  wine,  the  hills  flow  with  milk,  the 
torrents  of  Judah  flow  with  water,  a  fountain  comes  forth  from 
the  House  of  Jehovah,  and  waters  the  valley  of  Shittim,"  and 
innumerable  voices  proclaim  that  henceforth  the  "Lord  will 
dwell  in,"  as  he  has  delivered,  Zion. 

Was  there  ever  preparation  on  a  larger  scale;  suspense 
deeper ;  deliverance  more  sudden  ;  or  a  catastrophe  more  sub- 
lime ?  We  stay  not  no'^  critically  to  inquire  how  much  there 
is  of  what  is  literal,  and  how  much  of  what  is  metaphorical,  in 
this  description.  To  tell  accurately  where,  in  prophetic  lan- 
guage, the  metaphor  falls  from  around  the  fact,  and  the  fact 
pierces  the  bud  of  the  metaphor,  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  of 
tasks ;  as  difficult,  almost,  as  to  settle  the  border  line  between 
the  body  and  the  soul.  But,  apart  from  this,  we  think  there  is 
no  candid  reader  of  the  close  of  Joel,  but  must  be  impressed 
with  the  reality  of  the  contest  recorded  there,  with  its  modern 
date,  its  awful  breadth  of  field,  its  momentous  and  final  char- 
acter. It  is,  in  all  the  extent  of  the  words,  that  war  of  opinion 
so  often  partially  predicted  and  partially  fought.  It  is  a  con- 
test between  the  real  followers  of  Christ,  out  of  every  kindred, 
denomination,  tongue,  and  people,  and  the  open  enemies  and 
the  pretended  friends  of  his  cause.  It  is  a  contest  of  which  the 
materials  are  already  being  collected.  It  is  a  contest  which,  as 
it  hurtles  on,  shall  probably  shake  all  churches  to  their  foun- 
dations, and  give  a  new  and  strange  arrangement  to  all  parties. 
It  is  a  contest  for  which  intelligent  men  and  Christians  should 
be  preparing,  not  by  shutting  themselves  up  within  the  fast- 
nesses of  party,  nor  by  strengthening  more  strongly  the  stakes 

I 


194  MIC  AH. 

of  a  bygone  implicit  narrowness  of  creed,  but  by  the  exercise 
of  a  wise  liberality,  a  cautious  circumspection,  and  a  manly 
courage,  blended  with  candor,  and  by  being  prepared  to  sacri- 
fice many  an  outpost,  and  relinquish  many  a  false  front  of 
battle,  provided  they  can  save  the  citadel,  and  keep  the  banner 
of  the  cross  flying,  free  and  safe  above  it.  It  is  a  contest  which 
may,  in  all  probability,  become  at  last  more  or  less  literal,  as 
when  did  any  great  war  of  mind  fail  to  dye  its  garments  in 
blood.  It  is  a  contest  of  whose  where  and  when  we  may  not 
speak,  since  the  strongest  prophetic  breath  has  not  raised  the 
mists  which  overhang  the  plain  of  Armageddon.  It  is  a  con- 
test, finally,  which  promises  to  issue  in  a  supernatural  interven- 
tion, and  over  the  smoke  of  its  bloody  and  desperate  battle-field, 
to  show  the  crown  of  the  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man. 

MICAH. 

He  is  called  the  Morasthite,  because  born  in  Mareshah,  a 
village  in  the  south  of  the  territory  of  Judah.  He  prophesied 
during  the  reigns  of  Jotham,  Ahaz,  and  Hezekiah.  We  find  a 
remarkable  allusion  to  him  in  the  book  of  Jeremiah.  That 
prophet  had  predicted  the  utter  desolation  of  the  temple  and  city 
of  Jerusalem.  The  priests  and  prophets  thereupon  accused  him 
to  the  princes  and  the  people,  as  worthy  to  die,  because  he  had 
prophesied  against  the  city.  The  threat  is  about  to  be  put  in 
execution,  when  some  of  the  elders  rise  up  and  adduce  the  case 
of  Micah.  "  Micah,  the  Morasthite,  prophesied  in  the  days  of 
Ilezekiah,  king  of  Judah,  saying,  Thus  saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
Zion  shall  be  plowed  like  a  field,  and  Jerusalem  shall  become 
heaps,  and  the  mountain  of  the  house  as  the  high  places  of 
the  forest.  Did  Hezekiah,  king  of  Judah,  and  all  Judah,  put  him 
at  all  to  death  ?  did  he  not  fear  the  Lord,  and  besought  the 
Lord,  and  the  Lord  repented  him  of  the  evil  which  he  had  pro- 
nounced against  them  ?  Thus  might  we  procure  great  evil  against 
our  souls."  Micah  was  pleaded  as  a  precedent,  nor  was  ho 
pleaded  in  vain. 


MICAH.  195 

Tliis  prophet  is  noted  principally  for  the  condensation  of  his 
language,  the  rapidity  of  his  transitions,  the  force  and  brevity  of 
his  pictures,  the  form  of  dialogue  to  which  he  often  approaches, 
and  for  two  or  three  splendid  passages  which  tower  above  the 
rest  of  his  prophecy,  like  cedars  above  the  meaner  trees.  One 
of  these  records  the  sudden  gleam  of  insight  which  showed  him, 
in  the  future,  Bethlehem-Ephratah  sending  out  its  illustrious 
progeny,  one  whose  goings  forth  had  been  from  of  old,  from  the 
"  Eternal  obscure."  How  lovely  those  streams  of  prophetic 
illumination,  which  fall  from  aflu*,  like  autumn  sunshine  upon 
secret  and  lonely  spots,  and  crown  them  with  a  glory  unknown, 
to  themselves  !  Bethlehem  becomes  beautiful  beyond  itself,  in 
the  luster  of  the  Savior's  rising.  Another,  for  moral  grandeur, 
is  almost  unequaled  in  Scripture,  and  sounds  like  the  knell  of 
the  ceremonial  economy.  "Wherewith  shall  I  come  before 
Jehovah,  and  bow  myself  before  the  Most  High  God  ?  Shall  I 
come  before  him  with  burnt-offerings,  with  calves  of  a  year  old  ? 
Will  Jehovah  be  well  pleased  with  thousands  of  rams,  with  ten 
thousands  of  rivers  of  oil  ?  Shall  I  give  my  first-born  for  my 
transgression,  the  fruit  of  my  body  for  the  sin  of  my  soul  ?  He 
hath  showed  thee,  O  man,  what  is  good.  And  what  doth  Je- 
hovah require  of  thee,  but  to  do  justice,  and  to  love  mercy,  and 
to  walk  humbly  with  thy  God  ?"  Here  the  burden  of  the  50th 
Psalm  is  uttered  more  sententiously,  although  not  with  such 
av/ful  accompaniments.  Both  announce  the  prospective  arrival 
of  a  period,  when  the  husk  of  type  and  statutory  observance 
was  to  drop  from  around  the  fruit  it  had  protected  and  con- 
cealed, when  equity  was  to  outsoar  law,  mercy  to  rejoice  over 
sacrifice,  and  humility  to  take  the  room  of  ceremonial  holiness 
— when  that  "  which  had  decayed  and  w^axed  old  was  to  vanish 
away." 

In  this  liberal  spirit,  as  well  as  in  certain  passages  of  Micah's 
prophecy,  we  descry  the  influence  of  the  great  orb  which  ap- 
peared above  the  horizon  at  the  same  time — Isaiah.  The  close 
of  the  Tth  chapter  is  almost  identical  with  a  passage  in  Isaiah  ; 
but  the  main  coincidence  occurs  in  the  4th  chapter.     Critics 


196  MICAH. 

have  doubted  whether  the  opening  of  this  was  copied  by  Isaiah 
from  Micah,  or  by  Micah  from  the  2d  chapter  of  Isaiah  ;  or 
whether  it  were  communicated  by  the  Spirit  separately  to  both. 
This  is  a  matter  of  Utile  moment ;  certainly  the  strain  itself  was 
worthy  of  repetition. 

It  is  a  vision  of  the  future  glories  of  the  Church.  The  pro- 
phet finds  an  emblem  of  it  in  Mount  Sion,  or  the  mountain  of 
the  temple  of"  the  Lord.  This  was  not  remarkable  for  height. 
Far  loftier  mountains  arose  throughout  Palestine.  There  were 
the  mountains  which  stand  alway  about  Jerusalem.  There 
was  Salmon,  with  its  perpetual  snow.  There  were  the  moun- 
tains of  Gilboa,  where  Saul  and  Jonathan,  who  had  been  lovely 
in  their  lives,  in  their  death  were  not  divided.  There  was 
Carmel,  shadowing  the  waters  of  the  west,  and  covered,  to  its 
summit,  with  a  robe  of  undying  green.  There  was  Tabor,  ris- 
ing, like  an  island,  from  the  plain  of  Esdraelon,  which  lies  like 
an  ocean  around  it.  And  in  the  north,  stood  the  great  form  of 
Lebanon,  rising  above  the  clouds,  and  covered  with  the  cedars 
of  God— 

"  Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  towers, 
And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet ; 
"While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 
Is  smiling  rosy  at  his  feet." 

Compared  to  these  and  others,  Mount  Sion  was  but  a  little  hill 
— a  mere  dot  on  the  surface  of  the  globe.  But  dearer  it  was 
than  any  or  all  of  them  to  Micah's  heart.  And  why  ?  because 
it  was  the  mountain  of  the  Lord's  house.  No  temple  stood  on 
Tabor  ;  no  incense  streamed  from  Carmel ;  to  Lebanon  no  tribes 
went  up,  nor  sacrifices  ascended  from  its  cedarn  summits.  Sion 
alone  represented  the  position  of  the  Church — not  to  be  com- 
pared in  magnificence  or  in  multitude  of  votaries  with  other 
systems,  but  possessing,  in  the  presence  of  the  Spirit  of  the 
Lord,  a  principle  of  divine  life  and  an  element  of  everlasting 
progress. 

But  the  prophet  has  now  a  "  vision  of  his  own."    Sion  in  his 


MIC  AH.  197 

dream,  begins  to  stir,  to  move,  to  rise.  It  first  surmounts  the 
hills  which  are  around  Jerusalem  ;  then  rises  higher  than  Car- 
mel,  that  solitary  mountain  of  the  west ;  then  overtops  Tabor ; 
and  springs  up,  at  last,  as  far  above  Lebanon  as  Lebanon  was 
above  the  meaner  hills  of  the  land.  It  is  established  on  the  top 
of  the  mountains,  and  exalted  above  the  hills,  and  up  to  it  he 
sees  flocking  all  nations.  It  has  become  the  center  of  the 
world.  It  gives  law  to  every  people  and  tongue.  The  Lord 
himself  sits  in  the  midst  of  it,  distributing  justice  impartially 
to  all  near  and  far  off.  And  around  and  within  the  shadow 
of  his  universal  throne,  the  prophet  beholds  many  hammering 
their  swords  into  plough-shares,  and  their  spears  into  pruning- 
hooks — others  sitting  below  their  vine  and  fig-tree — and  all 
calm,  peaceful,  and  happy,  under  the  solitary  scepter  of  Jehovah. 
Thus  shaped  itself  on  Micah's  eye  a  prospect  which  must 
yet  be  transferred  from  his  to  the  broad  page  of  the  world. 
Like  Sion,  the  Church  is,  in  one  view,  very  small.  Hindoos 
and  Chinese  speak  of  her  as  a  low  heresy,  creeping  about  the 
mountains  and  marshes  of  Europe ;  and  contrast  her  with  their 
ancient  and  colossal  establishments.  Jev/s  and  Mohammedans 
deride  her,  as  cemented  by  the  blood  of  him  that  was  crucified. 
And  in  one  sense  they  are  right  in  so  judging ;  in  another,  they 
are  fearfully  mistaken.  Christianity  is  nothing,  except  that  it 
is  divine — nothing,  except  that  it  comes  from  heaven — nothing, 
except  that  it  is  to  cover  the  whole  earth  with  its  power  and  its 
praise.  The  arm  of  a  prophet  was  just  like  any  other  human 
arm  ;  it  possessed  precisely  the  same  number  of  bones,  sinews, 
muscles,  and  veins.  And  yet  when  raised  to  heaven,  when 
electrified  from  above,  it  could  divide  the  sea,  raise  the  dead, 
and  bring  down  fire  from  the  clouds.  So  the  true  Church  of 
Christ  is  just  an  assemblage  of  simple,  humble,  sincere  men — 
that  is  all ;  but  the  Lord  is  on  their  side,  and  there  we  discern 
a  source  of  energy,  which  shall  yet  shatter  thrones,  change  the 
destiny  of  nations,  and  uplift,  with  resistless  force,  the  moun- 
tain of  the  Lord's  house  above  the  mountains  and  above  the 
hills. 


198  MIC  AH. 

This  despised  and  struggling  Church  shall  yet  become  uni- 
versal. "  All  nations  shall  flow  unto  it."  Those  who  wander 
on  the  boundless  steeps  of  Tartary — those  who  shiver  amid 
the  eternal  ice  of  Greenland — those  who  inhabit  Africa,  that  con- 
tinent of  thirst — those  who  bask  in  the  lovely  regions  of  the 
South  Sea — all,  all  are  to  flow  to  the  mountain  of  the  Lord. 
They  are  to  "  flow ;"  they  are  to  come,  not  in  drops,  but  with  the 
rush  and  the  thunder  of  mighty  streams.  "  IsTations  are  to  be 
born  in  one  day."  A  supernatural  impulse  is  to  be  given  to  the 
Christian  cause.  Christ  is  again  to  be,  as  before,  his  own  mis- 
sionary. Blessed  are  the  eyes  which  shall  see  this  great  gather- 
ing of  the  nations,  and  the  ears  which  shall  hear  the  sound 
thereof.  Blessed  above  those  born  of  woman,  especially,  the  de- 
voted men,  who,  after  laboring  in  the  field  of  the  world,  shall 
be  rewarded,  and  at  the  same  time  astonished,  by  finding  its 
harvest-home  hastened,  and  the  work  which  they  had  been  pur- 
suing, with  strong  crying  and  tears,  done  to  their  hands,  done 
completely,  and  done  from  heaven.  In  this  belief  lies  the  hope 
and  the  help  of  the  world.  But  for  a  divine  intervention,  we 
despair  of  the  success  of  the  good  cause.  Allow  us  this,  and 
Christianity  is  sure  of  a  triumph,  as  speedy  as  it  shall  be  uni- 
versal. On  Sabbath,  the  16th  of  May,  1830,  we  saw  the  sun 
seized  on  the  very  apex  of  his  glory,  as  if  by  a  black  hand,  and 
so  darkened  that  only  a  thin  round  ring  of  light  remained  visible, 
and  the  chill  of  twilight  came  prematurely  on.  That  mass  of 
darkness  within  seemed  the  world  lying  in  wickedness,  and 
that  thin  round  ring  of  light,  the  present  progress  of  the  Gospel 
in  it.  But  not  more  certain  were  we  then,  that  that  thin  round 
ring  of  light  was  yet  to  become  the  broad  and  blazing  sun,  than 
are  we  now,  that  through  a  divine  interposal,  but  not  otherwise, 
shall  the  "  knowledge  of  the  glory  of  the  Lord  cover  the  earth 
as  the  waters  the  sea." 

With  this  coincides  Micah's  prophecy.  From  Sion,  as  of  old, 
the  law  is  to  go  forth ;  and  the  word  of  Jehovah  issuing  from 
Jerusalem  seems  to  imply,  that  he  himself  is  there  to  sit  and 
judge  and  reign — his  ancient  oracle  resuming  its  thunders,  and 


In  AHUM.  199 

again  to  his  feet  the  tribes  going  np.  And  the  first,  and  one  of 
the  best  fruits  of  his  dominion  is  peace.  "  They  learn  war  no 
more."  Castles  are  dismantled,  men  of  war  plow  the  deep  no 
longer,  but  are  supplanted  by  the  white  sails  of  merchant  ves- 
sels ;  soldiers  no  more  parade  the  streets  in  their  lothesome 
finery  of  blood ;  swords  and  spears  are  changed  into  instru- 
ments of  husbandry,  or,  if  preserved,  are  preserved  in  exhibi- 
tions, as  monuments  of  the  past  folly  and  frenzy  of  mankind. 
(Perhaps  a  child  finds  the  fragment  of  a  rusty  blade  some  day 
in  a  field,  brings  it  in  to  his  mother,  asks  her  what  it  is,  and 
the  mother  is  unable  to  reply !)  Peace,  the  cherub,  waves 
her  white  wing,  and  murmurs  her  soft  song  of  dovelike  joy 
over  a  regenerated  and  united  world. 

All  hail,  ye  "  peaceful  years  !"  Swift  be  your  approach ;  soon 
may  your  great  harbinger  divide  his  clouds  and  come  down ; 
and.  soon  may  the  inhabitants  of  a  warless  world  have  diiiiculty 
in  crediting  the  records  which  tell  of  the  wretchedness,  the  dis- 
peace,  the  selfishness,  and  the  madness  of  the  past. 


N"AHUM. 

Nahum  was  a  native  of  Elkoshai,  a  village  of  Galilee,  the 
ruins  of  which  are  said  to  have  been  distinctly  visible  in  the 
fourth  century. 

Nahum's  prophecy  is  not  much  longer  than  his  history.  It 
is  the  most  magnificent  shout  ever  uttered.  Like  a  shout,  it  is 
short,  but  strong  as  the  shout  which  brought  down  Jericho. 
The  prophet  stands — a  century  after  Jonah — without  the  wall 
of  Nineveh,  and  utters,  in  fierce  and  hasty  language,  his  procla- 
mation of  its  coming  doom.  No  pause  interrupts  it ;  there  is 
no  change  in  its  tone ;  it  is  a  stern,  one  war-cry,  and  comes 
swelled  by  the  echoes  of  the  past.  Nahum  is  an  evening  wolf, 
from  the  Lord,  smelling  the  blood  of  the  great  city,  and  utter- 
ing a  fearful  and  prolonged  note — half  of  woe,  and  half  of  joy, 
which  is  softened  by  distance  into  music.  How  wondrous  that 
one  song  should  have  survived  such  a  city ! 


200  ZEPHANIAH. 

In  a  shout,  you  expect  nothing  but  strength,  monotony,  and 
loudness.  But  Nahum's  is  the  "  shout  of  a  king  ;"  not  merely 
majestical  in  tone,  but  rises,  with  splendid  imagery  and  de- 
scription. Nineveh  must  fall  to  regal  music.  It  must  go 
down  amid  pomp  and  poetry.  Especially  does  the  prophet 
kindle,  as  he  pictures  the  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of 
■war.  Tyrtseus  and  Korner,  nay,  Macaulay  and  Scott,  are  faint- 
hearted on  the  field  of  battle,  compared  to  Nahum.  He  strikes 
his  lyre  with  fingers  dipped  in  blood.  In  him,  a  prophetic 
blends  with  a  martial  fire,  like  a  stray  sunbeam  crowning  and 
hallowing  a  conflagration.  Hear  Nineveh  shaking  in  the  breath 
of  his  terrible  outcry — "  AVoe  to  the  city  of  blood !  She  is  all 
full  of  falsehood  and  violence.  The  prey  departeth  not.  There 
is  a  sound  of  the  whip,  and  a  sound  of  the  rattling  wheels,  and 
of  the  prancing  horses,  and  of  the  bounding  chariots,  and  of  the 
mounting  horsemen.  There,  too,  burns  the  flame  of  the  sword, 
and  the  lightning  of  the  spear,  and  a  multitude  of  slain,  and  a 
heap  of  dead  bodies,  and  there  is  no  end  to  the  carcasses — they 
stumble  upon  carcasses." 

Nahum's  prophecy  possesses  one  poetical  quality  in  perfec- 
tion. That  is  concentration.  He  has  but  one  object,  one 
thought,  one  spirit,  one  tone.  His  book  gathers  like  a  "  wall 
of  fire"  around  the  devoted  city.  He  himself  may  be  fitliest 
likened  to  that  wild  and  naked  prophet,  who  ran  in  incessant 
and  narrowing  circle  about  Jerusalem,  and  who,  as  he  traced 
the  invisible  furrow  of  destruction  around  it,  cried  out,  "  Woe, 
woe,  woe,"  till  he  sank  down  in  death ! 

ZEPHANIAH. 

His  genealogy  is  more  minutely  marked  than  that  of  any  of 
his  brethren.  He  is  the  "  son  of  Cushi,  the  son  of  Gedaliah,  the 
son  of  Amariah,  the  son  of  Hezekiah."  While  his  genealogy 
is  thus  carefully  preserved,  none  of  the  fiicts  of  his  life  are  given. 
We  know  only  that  he  was  called  to  prophesy  in  the  days  of 
Josiah,  the  son  of  Anion,  the  King  of  Judah.     He  was  cotem- 


ZEPHANIAH.  201 

porary  with  Jeremiah,  and,  hke  him,  "  zealous  to  slaying" 
against  the  idols  and  idolatrous  practices  of  his  country. 

Zephaniah  is  less  distinguished  than  some  of  his  brethren  for 
any  m^arked  or  prominent  quality.  He  is  not  abrupt,  like  Ro- 
sea, gloomily-grand,  like  Joel,  majestic,  hke  Micah,  impetuous, 
like  Amos,  or  concentrated,  like  Nahum  :  he  is  rather  a  compo- 
site of  many  qualities,  and  a  miniature  of  many  prophetic  writers. 
We  have  vehement  denunciation  of  the  sins  of  his  own  people ; 
we  have  the  dooms  of  idolatrous  nations  pronounced  with  all  the 
force  and  fury  of  his  office ;  we  have  pictures,  startling  for  life 
and  minuteness,  of  the  varied  classes  and  orders  of  offenders  in 
Jerusalem — princes,  judges,  prophets,  and  priests;  and  we 
have  bright  promises,  closing  and  crov/ning  the  whole.  All 
these  are  uttered  in  a  brief,  but  impressive  and  solemn 
style. 

But  why,  is  it  asked,  do  these  Hebrew  prophets  utter  such 
terrible  curses  against  heathen  countries  ?  Are  they  not  harsh 
in  themselves,  and  do  they  not  augur  a  vindictive  spirit  on  the 
part  of  their  authors  ?  "We  ask,  in  reply,  first,  were  not  those 
curses  fulfilled  ?  Were  they  uttered  in  impotent  fury  ?  Did 
they  recoil  upon  the  heads  of  those  who  uttered  them  ?  Did 
those  ravens  croak  in  vain  ?  If  not,  is  it  not  to  be  inferred  that 
the  rage  they  expressed  was  not  their  own  ;  that  they  were,  in 
a  great  measure,  as  ravens  were  supposed  to  be,  instruments  of 
a  higher  power,  dark  with  the  shadow  of  destiny  ?  Evil  wishes 
are  proverbially  powerless  ;  the  "  threatened  live  long" — curses, 
like  chickens,  come  home  to  roost.  But  their  curses — the 
ruins  of  empires  are  smoking  with  them  still.  But,  secondly, 
even  if  we  grant  that  human  emotions  did  to  some  extent 
mingle  with  those  prophetic  denunciations,  yet  these  were  by 
no  means  of  a  personal  kind.  Of  what  oftense  to  Ezekiel  had 
Tyre,  or  to  Isaiah  had  Babylon,  been  guilty  ?  Their  ire  was 
kindled  on  general  and  patriotic  grounds.  Thirdly,  Let  us 
remember  that  the  prophets  employed  the  language  of  poetry, 
Vvhich  is  always  in  some  degree  that  of  exaggeration.  Righteous 
indignation,  when  set  to  music,  and  floated  on  the  breath  of 


202  ZEPHANIAH. 

song,  must  assume  a  higher  and  harsher  tone ;  must  ferment 
into  fury,  soar  into  hyperbohcal  invective,  or,  if  it  sink,  sink 
into  the  undertone  of  irony,  and  yet  remain  righteous  indigna- 
tion still.  Fourthly,  As  Coleridge  has  shown  so  well,  to  fuse 
indignation  into  poetic  form,  serves  to  carry  off  whatever  of 
over-violence  there  had  been  in  it :  by  aggravating,  it  reheves 
and  lessens  its  fury.  Fifthly,  There  is  such  a  thing  as  noble 
rage  ;  there  are  those  who  do  well  to  be  angry ;  there  is  anger 
which  may  lawfully  tarry  after  the  sun  has  gone  down,  and 
after  the  longest  twilight  has  melted  away ;  there  is  a  severe 
and  purged  fire,  not  to  feel  which  implies  as  deep  a  woe,  to  the 
subject,  as  to  feel  it  inflicts  upon  the  object.  It  is  the  sickly 
sentiraentaHsm  of  a  girl  which  shudders  at  such  glorious  frowns 
and  fiery  glances  and  deep  thrilling  accents,  as  robust  virtue 
must  sometimes  use  to  quell  vice,  and  audacity,  and  heartless- 
ness,  and  hypocrisy,  in  a  world  rank  with  them  all.  There 
must  be  other  sentences  and  songs  at  times  than  the  perfumed 
pages  of  albums  will  endure,  and  cries  may  require  to  be  raised 
which  would  jar  on  the  ear  of  evening  drawing-rooms.  Such 
sentences  and  cries  the  mildest  of  men,  nay,  superhuman  beings, 
have  been  forced  to  utter.  Can  any  one  ^vonder  at  Ezekiel's 
burdens,  who  has  read  the  23d  chapter  of  Matthew  ?  Dare  any 
one  accuse  Isaiah  of  vindictive  scorn  to  the  fallen  King  of 
Babylon,  who  remembers  the  divine  laughter  described  in  the 
2d  Psalm,  or  the  1st  chapter  of  Proverbs  ?  It  is  very  idle  to 
proceed  with  Watts  to  reduce  to  a  weak  dilution  the  sterner 
Psalms.  The  spirit  of  Jude  and  2d  Peter  is  essentially  the 
same  with  that  of  the  109th  and  137th  Psalms ;  and  never  be 
it  forgotten,  that  the  most  fearful  denunciations  of  sin,  and  pic- 
tures of  future  punishment  in  Scripture,  come  from  the  lips  of 
Jesus  and  of  the  disciple  whom  he  loved.  It  is  in  the  New  Tes- 
tament, not  the  Old,  that  that  sentence  of  direst  and  deepest 
import  occurs,  "  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
living  God." 

Were,  indeed,  the  theory  of  the  Germans  true,  that  those 
prophetic  curses  were  uttered  after  the  events  predicted,  we 


HABAKKUK.  203 

sliould  surrender  them  more  readily  to  their  censure,  although, 
even  in  this  case,  there  had  been  numerous  paUiations  to  plead 
for  the  prolonged  exultation  of  a  deHvered  race  over  foes  so 
oppressive  and  formidable.  But  believing  that  Isaiah's  burden 
of  Babylon  is  of  a  somewhat  different  order  from  the  prophecy 
of  Capys,  and  that  all  the  Scripture  predictions  implied  fore- 
sight, and  were  the  shadows  of  coming  events,  we  are  not  dis- 
posed to  gratify  the  skeptic  by  granting  that  one  spark  of 
infernal  fire  shone  on  those  flaming  altars  of  imprecation,  al- 
though a  shade  of  human  feeling  was  perhaps  inseparable  from 
the  bosoms  of  the  priests,  however  purged  and  clean,  who 
ministered  around  them. 


HABAKKUK. 

This  man,  too,  is  but  a  name  prefixed  to  a  rapt  psalm.  He 
lived  in  the  reign  of  Jehoiakim ;  was,  of  course,  cotemporary 
with  Jeremiah  ;  and  it  is  generally  supposed  that  he  remained 
in  Judah,  and  died  there.  Rugged,  too,  is  his  name,  and 
cacophonous,  nay,  of  cacophony  often  used  as  the  type.  Yet 
this  name  has  been  carved  in  bold  characters  upon  the  bark  of 
the  "  Tree  of  life,"  and  will  remain  there  forever.  Rough  as 
it  is,  it  was  the  name  of  a  noble  spirit,  and  has,  moreover,  a 
fine  signification — "  one  that  embraces."  Embraces  what  ? 
Does  not  his  daring  genius  seem  stretching  out  arms  to  "  em- 
brace" those  horns  of  light,  which  are  the  "  hiding  of  Jehovah's 
power  ?"  These  are  the  horns  of  the  altar  to  which  Habakkuk 
must  cling ! 

His  power  seems  as  limited  as  lofty.  His  prophecy  is  a 
Pompey's  Pillar — tall,  narrow,  and  insulated.  It  begins  abruptly, 
like  an  arm  suddenly  shot  up  in  prayer.  "  How  long,  O 
Jehovah,  have  I  cried,  and  thou  hast  not  hearkened !  Why 
dost  thou  show  me  iniquity,  and  cause  me  to  behold  grievance  ? 
for  spoiling  and  violence  are  before  me,  and  there  are  that  raise 
up  strife  and  contention."  Yet  this  reluctance  to  describe  the 
frightful  scenes  he  foresaw,  is  but  the  trembling  vibration  of 


204  HABAKKUK. 

the  javelin  ere  it  is  lanched,  the  hesitation  of  the  accusing 
orator  ere  his  speech  has  fully  begun,  the  convulsive  flutter  in 
the  lightning  ere  the  bolt  be  sped.  Over  the  heads  of  the  trans- 
gressors of  his  people,  he  speedily  lifts  up  three  words,  which 
express  all  that  follows — Behold,  Wonder,  Perish — words  very 
suitable,  in  their  fewness,  to  herald  the  coming  of  the  Chal- 
deans, that  "  bitter  and  hasty  nation,"  who  were  swift  as  the 
leopard,  and  fierce  as  the  evening  wolf,  as  well  as  characteristic 
of  the  ardent  soul  of  this  prophet,  who  sees  the  flower  before 
the  bud,  and  finds  out  the  crime  by  the  torch  of  the  punish- 
ment. How  he  catches  and  sets  before  us  the  rapid  progress  of 
the  Chaldeans.  Come  like  shadows  they  may,  but  they  do  not 
so  depart.  Yielding  like  wax  to  receive,  he  like  marble  retains 
their  image  and  tread.  "  Their  judgment  and  their  excellency 
proceed  from  themselves."  They  have — that  is  lately— re- 
volted from  the  Assyrian  yoke  ;  they  are  newly  let  loose ;  the 
greater  the  danger  of  their  prisoners.  "  Their  faces  sup  up  as 
the  east  wind."  'No  livelier  image  of  desolation  can  be  given. 
"  They  shall  gather  up  captives  as  the  sand,"  as  the  east  wind 
lifts  and  drifts  the  sands  before  it.  Thus,  like  "  reapers  de- 
scend to  the  harvest  of  death"  the  foemen,  fermenting  the 
"  vision  which  Habakkuk  the  prophet  did  see." 

Chapter  first  contains  the  vision,  chapter  second  the  accusa-. 
tion,  and  chapter  third  the  song,  or,  as  Evvald  calls  it,  the 
Dithyrambic.  These  are  the  beginning,  middle,  and  end  of 
the  prophecy.  The  accusation  breaks  into  a  succession  of 
woes,  hke  large  electric  drops.  "  Woe  unto  him  that  coveteth 
an  evil  covetousness  for  his  house.  Surely  the  stone  from  the 
wall  crieth  out,  and  the  beam  from  the  timber  answereth,  woe, 
woe  to  him  that  buildeth  a  town  by  blood,  and  establisheth  a 
city  by  iniquity."  Probably  the  woe,  thus  fearfully  ventrilo- 
quized from  v/all  and  wood,  pertains  to  the  King  of  Babylon. 
But  those  that  follow  light  on  his  own  land.  ''  Woe  to  him  that 
makethhis  neighbor  drink,"  "Woe  to  Iiim  that  saith  to  the 
•wood,  awake,  to  the  silent  stone,  arise,  shall  it  teach  ?"  "  Be- 
hold, it  is  laid  over  with  gold  and  silver,  neither  is  there  any 


HABAKKUK.  205 

breath  in  tlie  midst  thereof."  But  he  can  not  tarry  longer 
pouring  forth  such  preliminary  drops,  for  the  Lord  himself  is 
about  to  speak,  in  the  full  accents  of  his  ire,  and  to  come  in  all 
the  majesty  of  his  justice. 

How  solemn  the  stillness  of  the  expectation  produced  by  the 
closing  words  of  the  second  chapter,  "  But  Jehovah  is  in  his 
holy  temple.  Be  silent  before  him  all  the  earth."  As  in  sum- 
mer the  still  red  evening  in  the  west  predicts  the  burning 
morrow,  do  those  subhmely  simple,  and  terribly  tame  words, 
announce  that  the  ode,  on  its  wide  wings  of  shadowy  fire,  is  at 
hand. 

Amid  the  scenery  of  Sinai,  there  was  heard  at  the  crisis  of 
the  terror,  a  trumpet  waxing  gradually  very  loud,  giving  a 
martial  tone  to  the  tumult,  drawing  its  vague  awfulness  into  a 
point  of  War,  and  proclaiming  the  presence  of  the  Lord  of 
Hosts.  Could  we  conceive  that  trumpet  to  have  been  uttering 
words,  descriptive  of  the  scene  around,  they  had  been  the  words 
of  Habakkuk's  song.  "  God  came  from  Teman,  the  Holy  One 
from  Paran  ;  his  glory  covered  the  heavens,  and  the  earth  was 
full  of  his  praise." 

But  the  description  is  not  of  Sinai  alone,  nor,  indeed,  of  any 
single  scene.  It  is  a  yjicture  of  the  divine  progress  or  pilgrim- 
age throughout  the  Jewish  economy,  formed  by  combining  all 
the  grand  symbols  of  his  powder  and  presence  into  one  tumult 
of  glory.  It  were  difficult  for  a  thunder-storm  to  march  calmly 
and  regularly.  There  must  be  ragged  edges  in  the  darkness, 
and  wild  flashes  and  fluctuations  in  the  hght ;  and  so  with 
Habakkuk's  song.  Its  brightness  is  as  the  sun's  ;  but  there  is 
a  hiding  or  vail  over  its  might.  Its  figures  totter  in  sympathy 
with  the  trembhng  mountains  it  describes.  Its  language  bows 
before  its  thoughts,  like  the  everlasting  mountains  below  the 
footsteps  of  Jehovah. 

Where  begins  this  procession  ?  In  the  wilderness  of  Paran. 
There,  where  still  rise  the  three  tower-like  summits  of  Mount 
Paran,  which,  when  gilded  by  the  evening  or  morning  sun,  look 
like  "  horns  of  glory,"  the  great  pilgrim  begins  his  progress. 


206  HABAKKUK. 

How  is  he  attired  ?  It  is  iu  a  garment  woven  of  the  "  marvel- 
ous light  and  the  thick  darkness."  Rays,  as  of  the  morning 
sun,  shoot  out  from  his  hand.  These  are  at  once  the  horns  and 
the  hidings  of  his  power.  Like  a  dark  raven,  flies  before  him 
the  plague.  Wherever  his  feet  rest,  flashes  of  fire  (or  birds  of 
prey  !)  arise.  He  stands,  and  the  earth  moves.  He  looks  through 
the  clouds  which  vail  him,  and  the  nations  are  scattered.  As 
he  advances,  the  mountains  bow.  Paran  begins  the  homage ; 
Sinai  succeeds ;  the  giants  of  Seir,  and  Moab,  and  Bashan  fall 
prostrate — till  every  ridge  and  every  summit  has  felt  the  awe 
of  his  presence.  On  still  he  goes,  and  lo  !  how  the  tents  of 
Cushan  are  uncovered,  undone,  removed,  and  their  wandering 
inhabitants  vanish  away ;  and  how  the  curtains  of  the  land  of 
Midian  do  tremble,  as  he  passes  by.  But  have  even  the  waters 
perceived  him  ?  Is  he  angry  at  the  rivers  ?  Has  he  breathed 
on  them  too  ?  Yea,  verily ;  and  Jordan  stands  aside  to  let  him 
through  dryshod  into  Canaan's  land.  And  once  entered  there, 
the  hills  imitate  the  terror  of  their  eastern  brethren,  and  fall  a 
trembling ;  and  the  deeps  of  Galilee's  sea  and  the  Mediterranean 
utter  their  voice  ;  and  the  heights,  from  Olivet  to  Lebanon,  lift 
up  their  hands  in  wonder ;  and,  as  his  arrows  fly  abroad,  and 
his  spear  ghtters,  the  sun  stands  still  over  Gibeon,  and  the  moon 
over  the  valley  of  Ajalon.  Nor  does  the  Awful  Pilgrim  repose 
till  he  has  trampled  on  the  nations  of  Canaan  as  he  had  on  the 
mountains  of  the  east,  and  till  over  their  bruised  heads  and 
weltering  carcasses  he  has  brought  aid  to  his  people  and  salva- 
tion to  his  anointed. 

This  analysis,  after  all,  fails  to  convey  the  rapid  accumula- 
tion of  metaphor,  the  heaving  struggle  of  words,  the  boldness 
of  spirit,  and  the  crowded  splendors  of  this  matchless  picture. 
Indeed,  almost  all  the  brighter  and  bolder  images  of  Old  Tes- 
tament poetry  are  to  be  found  massed  up  in  this  single  strain. 
Chronology,  geography,  everything,  must  yield  to  the  purpose 
of  the  poet ;  which  is,  in  every  possible  way,  to  do  justice  to  his 
theme,  in  piling  glory  on  glory  around  the  march  of  God.  Thus 
he  dares  to  remove  the  Red  Sea  itself,  and  throw  it  into  the 


OBADIAH.  207 

path  between  Paran  and  Palestine,  that  the  Deity  may  pass 
more  triumphantly  on. 

Yet  the  modesty  is  not  inferior  to  the  boldness  of  the  song, 
Habakkuk  had  begun  intending  to  describe  a  future  coming  of 
God,  and,  to  fire  himself  for  the  effort,  had  called  np  the  glories 
of  the  past.  But  after  describing  these,  he  stops  short,  allowing 
us  only  to  infer  from  the  former  what  the  future  must  be. 
Exhausted  and  reeling  under  the  perception  of  that  overpower- 
ing picture,  he  dares  not  image  to  himself  the  tremendous  secrets 
of  the  future.  He  says  only,  "Though  my  country  should 
come  to  utter  desolation,  the  vines  give  no  fruit,  the  fields 
yield  no  bread,  the  flock  be  cut  off  from  the  fold,  and  there  be 
no  herd  in  the  stall,  yet  I  will  rejoice  in  the  Lord,  nay,  exult 
in  the  God  of  my  salvation.  He  will  make  me  to  leap  as  the 
hart,  even  though  my  feet,  hke  God's  own,  should  leap  on  naked 
crags,  and  tread  on  high  places,  though  they  should  be  those 
of  scathed  and  sterile  desolation." 

Beautiful  the  spirit  of  Habakkuk,  and  expressing  in  another 
form  the  grand  conclusion  of  Job,  and  of  all  earnest  and  recon- 
ciled spirits.  A  God  so  great  must  be  good  ;  and  he  who  hath 
done  things  in  the  past  so  mighty  and  terrible,  yet  in  their 
efiect  so  gracious,  may  be  well  expected,  and  expected  with 
exultation,  to  pursue  his  ov/n  path,  however  inscrutable,  to  the 
ultimate  good  of  his  world  and  Church,  and  often  to  "  express 
his  answer  to  our  prayers,"  as  in  the  days  of  old,  by  works  as 
"  fearful"  as  inaQ-uificent. 


OBADIAH. 

There  are  no  less  than  twelve  persons  of  this  name  mentioned 
in  Scripture.  The  most  distinguished  of  them  is  the  Obadiah 
who  saved  a  hundred  of  God's  prophets,  by  hiding  them  in  a 
cave,  during  a  time  of  scarcity  and  persecution.  Some  suppose 
that  he  was  the  prophet  before  us,  although  others  deem  him 
to  have  flourished  at  a  much  later  date — at  the  same  period 
witU  Jeremiah  and  Ezekiel. 


208  OBADIAH. 

He  seems  to  have  propliesied  in  the  short  interval  between 
the  destruction  of  Jerusalem  and  that  of  Edom.  His  prophecy, 
which  is  but  a  fragment,  consists  principally  of  predictions  of 
the  judgments  impending  over  Edom,  and  of  the  restoration 
and  prosperity  of  the  Jews.  There  are  remariiable  coincidences 
between  Obadiah  and  the  49  th  chapter  of  Jeremiah. 

A  single  chapter,  which,  like  this  of  Obadiah,  has  survived 
ages,  empires,  and  religions,  must  be  strongly  stamped  either 
with  peculiarity  or  with  power.  It  must  have  some  inextin- 
guishable principle  of  vitality.  Apart  from  its  inspiration,  it 
survives,  as  the  most  memorable  rebuke  to  fraternal  hardness 
of  heart.  It  is  a  brand  on  the  brow  of  that  second  Cain,  Esau. 
Hear  its  words,  stern  in  truth,  yet  plaintive  in  feehng,  "  For 
slaughter,  and  for  oppression  of  thy  brother  Jacob,  shame  shall 
cover  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  cut  ofi"  forever.  In  the  day 
when  thoustoodest  on  the  other  side,  in  the  day  when  strangers 
carried  away  captive  his  forces,  and  when  foreigners  entered 
his  gates,  and  when  they  cast  lotion  Jerusalem,  thou  also  icast 
as  one  of  tJmn.  But  thou  shouldest  not  have  so  looked  on  the 
day  of  thy  brothei',  on  the  day  when  he  became  a  stranger,  nor 
have  rejoiced  over  the  sons  of  Judah  in  the  day  when  they 
were  destroyed,  nor  have  magnified  thy  words  in  the  day  of 
distress.  Thou  shouldest  not  have  entered  into  the  gate  of  my 
people  in  the  day  of  their  calamity,  nor  have  so  looked  on  his 
affliction  in  the  day  of  his  calamity,  nor  have  put  forth  thine 
hand  on  his  substance  in  the  day  of  his  calamity,  nor  have 
stood  in  the  cross  way  to  cut  off  those  of  his  that  escaped,  nor 
have  delivered  up  those  of  his  that  remained,  in  the  day  of  dis- 
tress." "  Verily,  O  Esau,  thou .  wert  guilty  concerning  thy 
brother,  when  thou  sawest  the  anguish  of  his  soul,  and  when, 
perhaps,  like  Joseph,  he  besought  thee,  and  thou  wouldst  not 
hear."  And  at  thy  Philistine  forehead  was  Obadiah  commis- 
sioned to  aim  one  smooth  sling-stone,  which,  having  prostrated 
ihee,  has  been  preserved  for  us,  in  God's  word,  as  a  monument 
of  thy  fratricidal  folly.     This  is  that  little. book  of  Obadiah. . 


HAGGAI.  209 


HAGGAI 


Between  Obadiah  and  Haggai,  many  important  events  "had 
occurred  in  tlie  history  of  God's  people.  The  city  Jerusalem 
had  been  captured,  the  Temple  sacked,  and  the  brave  but  ill- 
fated  inhabitants  been  carried  captive  to  Babylon.  There  they 
had  groaned  and  wept  bitterly  under  their  bondage,  and  one 
song  of  their  captive  genius,  of  unequaled  pathos,  has  come 
down  to  us.  "  By  the  rivers  of  Babylon,  there  w^e  sat  down,  yea, 
we  wept  when  we  remembered  Zion.  Wc  hanged  our  harps  upon 
the  willows  in  the  midst  thereof.  For  there  they  that  carried  us 
away  captive  required  of  us  a  song,  and  they  that  wasted  us 
required  of  us  mirth,  saying,  sing  us  one  of  the  songs  of  Zion. 
How  shall  we  sing  the  Lord's  song  in  a  strange  land  ?"  How, 
indeed,  sing  it,  save  as  we  may  conceive  the  fiends  singing  in 
hell  the  songs  of  heaven,  the  words  the  same,  the  melodies  the 
same,  but  woe  for  the  accompaniments  and  for  the  hearts  ?  How 
sing  here  the  songs  of  Judah's  vintage,  and  Judah's  ingather- 
ing, and  Judah's  marriage-feasts  ?  Surely  it  is  the  most  deli- 
cate and  infernal  of  insults  for  a  spoiler  to  demand  mirth 
instead  of  labor,  a  song  instead  of  patient  sorrow !  V/e,  they 
reply,  can  sing  at  your  bidding  no  songs  of  Zion,  but  we  can 
testify  our  love  to  her  by  our  tears.  And,  trickling  through 
the  hand  of  the  taskmaster,  and  running  down  three  thousand 
years,  has  one  of  these  tears  come  to  us,  and  we  call  it  the 
ISYth  Psalm. 

From  this  state  of  degradation  and  woe,  Judah  had  been 
raised.  She  had  been  brought  back  in  circumstances  mourn- 
fully different,  indeed,  from  the  high  day  when,  coming  out  of 
Egypt,  she  turned,  and  encamping  between  Pihahiroth  and  the 
sea,  felt  that  the  extremity  of  the  danger  w^as  the  first  edge  of 
the  rising  deliverance,  and  when  she  went  forth  by  her  armies 
with  a  mighty  power  and  a  stretched-out  arm.  Now  she  must 
kneel,  and  have  the  bandage  of  her  slavery  taken  off  by  human 
hands,  and  be  led  tamely  out  into  her  own  land,  under  the 
banners  of  a  strano-er.     Even  after  she  had  reached  and  com- 


210  HAG  GAT. 

meiiced  the  operation  of  building  the  Temple,  numerous  diffi- 
culties, arising  partly  from  the  opposition  of  surrounding  tribes, 
and  partly  from  the  indifference  of  the  people  themselves,  were 
presented.  For  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  the  enterprise  was 
abandoned,  and  it  is  on  an  imfinished  Temple  that  we  see 
Haggai  first  appearing  to  stir  up  his  slothful,  and  to  comfort 
his  desponding,  countrymen. 

We  know  only  of  this  prophet,  that  he  was  born  during  the 
captivity ;  that  he  had  returned  with  Zerubbabel,  and  flourished 
under  the  reign  of  Darius  Ilystaspis. 

The  right  of  Haggai  to  the  title  of  poet  has  been  denied,  on 
account  of  his  comparatively  tame  and  prosaic  style ;  but  we 
must  remember  the  distinction  we  have  indicated  between 
poetic  statement  and  poetic  song.  He  has  little  of  the  latter, 
but  much  of  the  former.  There  is  nothing  in  the  Hebrew 
tongue  calculated  more  to  rouse  the  blood,  than  these  simple 
words  of  his — "  Who  is  there  left  among  you  that  saw  this 
house  in  its  former  glory  ?  And  what  do  ye  see  it  now  ?  Is 
it  not  as  nothing?  Yet  now  be  strong,  O  Zerubbabel,  saith 
Jehovah.  And  be  strong,  O  Joshua,  son  of  Josedech,  the  high- 
priest.  And  be  strong,  0  all  ye  people  of  the  land,  saith  Je- 
hovah. And  work,  for  I  am  with  you,  saith  Jehovah,  Lord  of 
Hosts.  For  thus  saith  Jehovah  of  Hosts,  yet  once  more,  it  is  a 
httle  while,  I  will  shake  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  and  the  sea 
and  the  dry  land,  and  I  will  shake  all  nations,  and  the  desire 
of  all  nations  will  come,  and  I  will  fill  this  house  with  glory, 
saith  Jehovah  of  Hosts.  The  silver  is  mine,  and  the  gold  is 
mine,  saith  Jehovah,  God  of  Hosts.  Greater  shall  be  the  glory 
of  this  latter  house  than  of  the  former,  saith  Jehovah,  God  of 
Hosts.  And  in  this  place  will  I  give  peace,  saith  Jehovah,  God 
of  Hosts."  This,  if  prose,  is  the  prose  of  a  pyramid,  or  an 
Olympus,  compared  with  the  flowery  exuberance  of  Enna  or 
Tempe.  It  is  the  bareness  of  grandeur.  It  is  one  of  the  moore 
of  heaven. 

The  building  of  the  second  Temple  had  been  resigned  in  de- 
spair, partly  because  it  was  impossible  to  supply  some  of  the 


ZECHARIAII.  211 

principal  ornaments  of  tlie  ancient  edifice,  such  as  the  Urim 
and  Thiimmira,  the  ark  containing  the  two  tables  of  the  law, 
the  pot  of  manna,  Aaron's  rod  that  budded,  and  the  cloud,  or 
Shekinah,  that  covered  the  mercy-seat,  and  was  the  symbol  of 
the  divine  glory.  It  became  then  the  part  of  Haggai,  in  his 
work  of  encouragement  and  re\dval,  to  point  out  the  advent  of 
one  object  to  the  new  Temple,  which  should  supply  the  lack  of 
all.  This  was  to  be  the  living  cloud — the  personal  Shekinah 
— the  Christ  promised  to  the  fathers.  And  he,  when  he  came, 
was  not  only  to  glorify  the  mercy-seat,  and  brighten  the  turban 
of  the  high-priest  as  he  went  in  to  pray,  but  to  pour  a  radiance 
over  the  whole  world,  of  which  he  had  been  the  desire.  Did 
the  Temple  shake  w^hen  the  cloud  of  glory  entered  it  in  Solo- 
mon's day  ?  The  Karth  was  to  respond  to  the  vibration,  when 
the  Son  of  Man  came  to  his  Father's  house.  "  Tidings  of  the 
New  Shekinah"  may,  therefore,  be  the  proper  title  for  Haggai's 
prophecy ;  and  while  the  old  men  wept  w-hen  they  contrasted 
the  present  with  the  former  Temple,  he  rejoiced,  because  he  saw 
in  the  absence  of  those  external  o-lories,  in  the  settino*  of  those 
elder  stars,  the  approaching  presence  of  a  spiritual  splendor — 
the  rising  of  the  last  great  luminary  of  the  Church. 

It  was  not  needful  that  the  herald  of  an  event  (comparative- 
ly) so  near  should  be  dressed  in  all  the  insignia  of  his  oflace. 
These  had  been  necessary  once  to  attract  attention,  and  secure 
respect,  but  now  the  forerunner  was  merely,  like  Elijah,  "  to 
gird  up  his  loins,  and  run  before"  the  chariot  which  was  at 
hand.  And  thus  we  account  for  the  comparative  bareness  of 
style  appertaining  to  the  prophet  Haggai.  ^ 

His  associate  in  office  was 

ZECHARIAH. 

He  was  the  "  Son  of  Barachiah,  the  son  of  Iddo."  "  In  Ezra," 
says  Dr.  Eadie,  "  he  is  styled  simply  the  son  of  Iddo,  most 
probably  because  his  fiither,  Barachiah,  had  died  in  early  man- 
hood, and  his  genealogy,  in  accordance  with  Jewish  custom,  is 


212  ZECHARIAH. 

traced  at  once  to  Lis  grandfather,  Iddo,  who  would  be  better 
known.  He  appears  to  have  been  a  descendant  of  Levi,  and 
thus  entitled  to  exercise  the  priestly,  as  he  did  the  prophetic, 
office.  He  entered  upon  his  prophetic  duties  in  the  8th  month 
of  the  second  year  of  Darius,  about  520,  A.C."  Jewish  tradition 
relates  that  the  prophet  died  in  his  native  country,  after  "  a  life 
prolonged  to  many  days,"  and  was  buried  by  the  side  of  Hag- 
gai,  his  associate. 

The  object  of  Zechariah  is  precisely  that  of  Haggai — "  writ 
large."  It  is  to  rouse  an  indolent,  to  encourage  a  desponding, 
and  to  abash  a  backsliding  people.  This  he  does,  if  not  with 
greater  energy,  yet  by  bolder  types,  and  through  the  force  of 
broader  ghmpses  into  the  future,  than  his  coadjutor. 

In  all  prophetical  Scripture,  we  find  lofty  symbols  rushing 
down,  as  if  impatient  of  their  elevation,  into  warm  practical 
apphcation,  like  high  white  clouds  dissolving  in  rain.  This 
we  noticed  in  Ezekiel.  But  in  Zechariah  it  is  still  more  re- 
markable. The  red  horses,  the  four  horns,  the  stone  with  seven 
eyes,  the  candlestick  of  gold,  the  olive-trees,  the  flying  roll,  the 
ephah  and  the  talent  of  lead,  the  four  chariots  from  between  the 
two  mountains,  the  staves  Beauty  and  Bands,  the  cup  of  trem- 
bhng,  the  burdensome  stone,  and  the  fountain  of  purification, 
are  not  mere  brilhant  dreams,  "  forever  flushing  round  a  sum- 
mer's sky,"  but  are  closely  connected  with  the  main  purposes  of 
the  prophecy.     It  is  Haggai's  argument  pleaded  from  the  clouds. 

The  poet  who  extracts  his  own  thought  and  imagery  from 
ordinary  scenery,  is  worthy  of  his  name.  But  he  is  the  truest 
maker,  who  forms  a  scenery  and  world  of  his  own.  This  has 
Zechariah  done.  The  wildest  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights"  contains 
no  descriptions  so  unearthly  as  those  in  his  prophecy.  Those 
mountains,  what  and  where  are  they  ?  Those  chariots,  whence 
come,  and  w^hither  go  they  ?  Those  four  horns,  who  has  raised  ? 
Those  red  horses,  what  has  dyed  them  ?  But  strangest  and 
most  terrible  is  the  "  flying  roll,"  "  passing  like  night  from  land 
to  land" — having  "  strange  power  of  speech,"  stranger  power  of 
silence — a  judgment,  verily,  that  doth  not  linger,  a  damnation 


ZECHARIAH.  213 

that  doth  not  slumber.  How  powerfully  does  this  represent 
law  as  a  swift  executioner,  winged,  and  ever  ready  to  follow 
the  trail  of  crime,  at  once  with  accusation,  sentence,  and  pun- 
ishment ! 

From  the  height  of  contempt,  Zechariah  has  reached  for  the 
then  state  of  his  country — he  has  but  a  few  steps  to  rise — to  a 
panoramic  prospect  of  the  future,  even  of  its  most  distant  points 
and  pinnacles.  The  long  day  of  Christianity  itself  looks  dim 
in  the  splendors  of  its  evening  ;  the  second  advent  eclipses  the 
first.  The  "  day  of  the  Lord"  surmounts  all  intermediate  ob- 
jects ;  and  the  "  last  battle"  brings  his  prophecy  to  a  resplendent 
close. 

One  stray  passage  must  be  noticed,  from  its  connection  with 
the  New  Testament,  and  the  tragedy  of  the  Cross.  It  is  that 
where  the  Lord  of  Hosts  cries  out,  in  his  impatience  and  anger, 
"  Awake,  O  sword,  against  my  shepherd,  and  against  the  man 
that  is  my  fellow  :  smite  the  shepherd,  and  the  sheep  shall  be 
scattered."  How  startling  the  haste  of  this  exclamation ! 
"  Haste,  for  the  victim  has  been  bound  to  the  altar.  Haste,  for 
the  harps  in  heaven  are  silent  till  the  day  of  atonement  has 
passed  away.  Haste,  for  hell  is  dumb  in  the  agony  of  its  dark 
anticipations.  Haste,  for  the  eyes  of  the  universe  have  been 
fixed  upon  the  spot ;  all  things  are  ready  ;  yea,  the  sackcloth  of 
the  sun  has  been  woven,  and  ere  that  darkness  pass  away,  the 
sweat  of  an  infinite  agony  must  have  been  expanded,  and  the 
blood  of  an  infinite  atonement  must  have  been  shed." 

Did  not  the  great  victim  bear  this  in  view  on  the  last  night 
of  his  life,  when,  looking  up  to  the  darkened  heaven  and  the 
unsheathed  sword,  he  sounded  himself  the  signal  for  the  blow, 
as  he  cried,  "  It  is  written,  smite  the  shepherd,  and  the  sheep 
shall  be  scattered  ?" 

This  wondrous  cry  was  obeyed.  The  sword  awoke  against 
the  man,  God's  fellow.  It  was  "bathed  in  heaven."  And 
now  no  more  is  the  cry  raised,  "  Awake,  O  sword."  Against 
the  people  of  God  it  is  sheathed  forever.  Yet  shall  this  dread 
moment  never  be  forgotten.    For  even  as  in  the  glad  valleys  of 


214  MALACHI. 

earth,  wlien  sunsliine  is  resting  on  the  landscape,  the  sound  of 
thunder  heard  remote  only  enhances  the  sense  of  security,  and 
deepens  the  feeling  of  repose,  so,  in  the  climes  of  heaven's  day, 
shall  the  memory  of  that  hour  so  dark,  and  that  cry  so  fearful, 
be  to  the  souls  of  the  ransomed  a  joy  forever. 

MALACHI. 

The  word  means  "  my  angel  or  messenger."  Hence  some 
have  contended  that  there  was  no  such  person  as  Malachi,  but 
that  Ezra  was  the  author  of  the  book.  Origen  even  maintains 
that  the  author  was  an  incarnate  angel.  The  general  opinion, 
however,  is,  that  he  was  a  real  personage,  who  flourished  about 
400  years  before  Christ. 

It  v/as  meet  that  the  ancient  dispensation  should  close  amid 
such  cloudy  uncertainties.  It  had  been  all  along  the  "  religion 
of  the  vail."  There  was  a  vail,  verily,  upon  more  than  the 
face  of  Moses.  Every  thing  from  Sinai — its  center,  down  to 
the  least  bell  or  pomegranate — wore  a  vail.  Over  Malachi's 
Hice,  form,  and  fortunes,  it  hangs  dark  and  impenetrable.  A 
masked  actor,  his  tread  and  his  voice  are  thunder .  The  last 
pages  of  the  Old  Testament  seem  to  stir  as  in  a  furious  wind, 
and  the  word  curse,  echoing  down  to  the  very  roots  of  Calvary, 
closes  the  record. 

On  Malachi's  prophecy,  there  is  seen  mirrored,  in  awful  clear- 
ness, in  fiery  red,  the  coming  of  Christ,  and  of  his  forerunner, 
the  Baptist.  "  I  will  send  you  Elijah,  the  prophet,  before  the 
coming  of  the  great  and  dreadful  day  of  the  Lord."  Last  of  a 
long  and  noble  line — fated  to  have  no  follower  for  four  hundred 
years — a  certain  melancholy  bedims  this  prophet's  strains.  His 
language  is  bare  and  bald,  compared  with  that  of  some  of  the 
others,  although  this  seems  to  spring  rather  from  his  subject 
than  himself.  The  "  seal  of  the  prophets,"  as  the  rabbis  called 
him,  is  a  hlacTc  seal.  And  thus,  although  he  abounds  in  pre- 
dictions of  Christ's  near  approach,  you  shut  him  with  a  feeling 
of  sadness. 


MALACIII.  215 

It  is  impossible  to  close  this  review  of  Israel's  ancient  bards 
"without  very  peculiar  sensations.  We  feel  as  one  might  who 
had  been  dwelling  for  a  season  among  the  higher  Alps,  as  he 
turned  to  the  plains  again,  tori'ents  and  avalanches  still  sounding 
in  his  ears,  and  a  memory  of  the  upper  grandeurs  dwindhng  to 
his  eyes  all  lower  objects.  But  have  we  brought  down  with  us, 
and  do  we  wish  to  confer  on  others,  nothing  but  admiration  ? 
Nay,  verily,  these  Alps  of  humanity  waft  down  many  important 
lessons.  Showing  how  high  man  has  attained  in  the  past,  they 
show  the  altitude  of  the  man  of  the  future  world.  To  the  poet, 
how  exciting,  at  once,  and  humbling !  He  complains,  at  times, 
that  he  too  soon  and  easily  overtakes  his  models,  and  finds  them 
cloud  or  clay  after  all ;  but  here  are  models  forever  above  and 
beyond  him,  as  are  the  stars.  And  yet  he  is  permitted  to  look 
at,  to  be  hghtened  by  them,  "  to  roll  their  raptures,  and  to  catch 
their  fire."  Here  are  God's  own  pictures,  glowing  on  the  inac- 
cessible walls.  To  the  believer  in  their  supernatural  claims, 
how  thrilling  the  proud  reflection — this  bark,  as  it  carries  me 
to  heaven,  has  the  flag  of  earthly  genius  floating  above  it.  To 
the  worshiper  of  genius,  these  books  present  the  object  no 
longer  as  an  idol,  but  as  a  god.  The  admirer  of  man  finds  him 
here  in  his  highest  mood  and  station,  speaking  from  the  very 
door  of  the  eternal  shrine,  with  God  tuning  his  voice  and  regu- 
lating his  periods.  Genius  and  religion  are  here  seen  wedded 
to  each  other,  with  unequal  dowries,  indeed,  but  with  one  heart. 
And  there  is  thus  conveyed,  in  parable,  the  prospect  of  their 
eternal  union. 

And  can  v/e  close  this  old  volume  without  an  emotion  of  un- 
utterable astonishment  ?  Here,  from  the  rudest  rock,  has  dis- 
tilled the  sweetest  honey  of  song.  The  simplest  and  most 
limited  of  lano^uages  has  been  the  medium  of  the  loftiest  elo- 
quence — the  oaten  pipe  of  the  Hebrew  shepherd  has  produced 
a  music,  to  which  that  of  the  Grecian  organ  and  the  Latin  fife 
is  discord.  Here,  too,  centuries  before  the  Augustan  age,  are 
conceptions  of  God  which  Cicero  never  grasped,  nor  Virgil  ever 
sung.     Race,  climate,  original  genius,  will  not  altogether  account 


216  MALAcnr. 

for  this.  The  real  answer  to  the  question,  Why  burned  that 
bush  so  brightly  amid  the  lonely  wilderness,  is,  God,  the  God 
of  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  of  Moses,  Isaiah,  and  Daniel, 
dwelt  therein^  and  the  place  is  still  lovely,  yet  dreadful,  with  his 
presence. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

CIRCUMSTANCES  MODIFYING  NEW  TESTAMENT 
POETRY. 

The  main  principle  of  the  Old  Testament  may  be  comprised 
in  the  sentence,  "  Fear  God,  and  keep  his  commandments :  this 
is  the  whole  duty  of  man."  The  main  principle  of  the  New  is, 
"  Believe  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  thou  shalt  be  saved." 
And  yet,  round  these  two  simple  sentences,  what  masses  of 
beauty  and  illustration  have  been  collected  !  To  enforce  them, 
what  argument,  what  eloquence,  what  poetry,  have  been  em- 
ployed !  Say,  rather,  that  those  truths,  from  their  exceeding 
breadth,  greatness,  and  magnetic  power,  have  levied  a  tribute 
from  multitudinous  regions,  and  made  every  form  of  thought 
and  composition  subservient  to  their  influence  and  end. 

The  New  Testament,  as  well  as  the  Old,  is  a  poem — the 
Odyssey  to  that  Iliad.  And  over  the  poetry  of  both,  circum- 
stances and  events  have  exerted  a  modifying  power.  Yet  it  is 
remarkable,  that  in  the  New  Testament,  although  events  of  a 
marvelous  kind  were  of  frequent  occurrence,  they  are  not  used 
so  frequently  in  a  poetical  way  as  in  the  Old.  The  highest 
poetry  in  the  New  Testament,  is  either  didactic  in  its  character, 
as  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  and  Paul's  praise  of  charity,  or  it 
is  kindled  up  by  visions  of  the  future,  and  apparitions  through 
the  present  darkness  of  the  great  white  throne. 

The  resurrection,  as  connected  with  the  doctrine  of  a  general 
judgment,  is  the  event  which  has  most  colored  the  poetry  of 
the  New  Testament.  The  throne  becomes  a  far  more  command- 
ing object  than  even  the  mount  that  might  be  touched.    Faint, 


218  CIRCUMSTANCES    MODIFYING 

in  fact,  is  the  reflection  of  this  "  Great  Vision"  upon  the  page 
of  ancient  prophecy  :  the  trump  is  heard,  as  if  from  a  distance ; 
the  triumph  of  life  over  death  is  anticipated  seldom,  and  with 
little  rapture.  But  no  sooner  do  we  reach  the  threshold  of  the 
new  dispensation,  than  we  meet  voices  from  the  interior  of  the 
sanctuary,  proclaiming  a  judgment ;  the  sign  of  the  Son  of 
Man  is  advanced  above,  the  graves  around  are  seen  with  the 
tombstones  loosened  and  the  turf  broken,  and  "  I  shall  arise" 
hovering  in  golden  characters  over  each  narrow  house  ;  the 
central  figure  bruises  death  under  his  feet,  and  points  with  a 
cross  to  the  distant  horizon,  where  life  and  immortality  are 
cleaving  the  clouds,  and  coming  forth  with  beauty  and  heahng 
on  their  wings.  Such  is  the  prospect  in  our  Christian  sanctuary  ; 
and  hence  the  supernatural  grandeur  of  the  strains  which  swell 
within  it.  Hence  the  rapture  of  the  challenge,  "  O  death, 
where  is  thy  sting?"  Hence  the  solemnity  of  the  assertion, 
"  Marvel  not  at  this,  for  the  hour  is  coming  when  they  that  are 
in  their  graves  shall  hear  the  voice  of  the  Son  of  Man."  Hence 
the  fiery  splendor  of  the  description,  "  The  Lord  himself  shall 
descend  with  a  shout,  with  the  voice  of  the  archangel  and  the 
trump  of  God."  Hence  the  harping  symphonies  and  sevenfold 
hallelujahs  of  the  Apocalypse,  "  I  saw  the  dead,  small  and  great, 
stand  before  God."  Here,  indeed,  is  a  source  of  inspiration, 
open  only  to  the  New  Testament  writers.  The  heathens  knew 
not  of  the  resurrection  of  the  dead.  But  Paul  and  John  have 
extracted  a  poetry  from  the  darkness  of  the  grave.  In  heathen 
belief,  there  was,  indeed,  a  judgment  succeeding  the  death  of 
the  individual ;  but  no  general  assemblage,  no  public  trial,  no 
judgment-seat,  "  high  and  hfted  up,"  no  flaming  universe,  and, 
above  all,  no  God-man  swaying  the  fiery  storm,  and,  with  the 
hand  that  had  been  nailed  to  the  cross,  opening  the  bocks  of 
universal  and  final  decision, 

"  Meditations  among  the  Tombs,"  what  a  pregnant  title  to 
what  a  feeble  book  !  Ah  !  the  tombs  are  vaster  and  more 
numerous  than  Hervey  dreamed.  There  is  the  churchyard 
among  the  mountains,  where  the  "  rude  forefathers  of  the  ham- 


XEW   TESTAMENT   POETRY.  219 

let  lie."  There  is  the  crowded  cemetery  of  the  town,  where 
silent  thousands  have  laid  th.emselves  down  to  repose.  There 
are  the  wastes  and  wildernesses  of  the  world,  where  "  armies 
whole  have  sunk,"  and  where  the  dead  have  here  their  shroud 
of  sand,  and  there  their  shroud  of  snow.  There  is  the  hollow 
of  the  earth,  v/here  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram,  and  many  be- 
sides, have  been  engulfed.  There  are  the  fields  of  battle, 
which  have  become  scenes  of  burial,  as  well  as  of  death.  And 
there  is  the  great  ocean,  which  has  wrapped  its  garment  of 
green  round  manjr  a  fair  and  noble  head,  and  which  rolls  its 
continual  requiem  of  sublimity  and  sadness  over  the  millions 
whom  it  has  entombed.  Thus  does  the  earth,  with  all  its  con- 
tinents and  oceans,  roll  around  the  sun  a  splendid  sepulcher ! 

Amid  those  dim  catacombs,  what  victims  have  descended  ! 
The  hero,  who  has  coveted  the  dreadful  distinction  of  entering 
hell,  red  from  a  thousand  victories,  is  in  the  grave.  The  sage, 
who  has  dared  to  say  that,  if  he  had  been  consulted  in  the 
making  of  the  universe  he  had  made  it  better,  is  in  the  grave. 
The  monarch,  who  has  wept  for  more  worlds  to  conquer  and  to 
reign  over,  is  in  the  grave.  The  poet,  who,  towering  above  his 
kind,  had  seemed  to  demand  a  contest  with  superior  intelli- 
gences, and  sought  to  measure  his  j^en  against  the  red  thunder- 
bolts of  Heaven,  is  in  the  grave.  Where  now  the  ambition  of 
the  first,  the  insane  presumption  of  the  second,  the  idle  tears  of 
the  third,  the  idler  laurels  of  the  last  ?  All  gone,  sunk,  lost, 
drov/ned,  in  that  ocean  of  Death,  where  no  oar  ever  yet  broke 
the  perpetual  silence  ! 

But,  alas  !  these  graves  are  not  full.  In  reason's  ear — an 
ear  ringing  ever  with  strange  and  mystic  sounds — there  is  heard 
a  voice,  from  the  thousand  tombs,  saying — "  Yet  there  is  room." 
The  churchyard  among  the  hills  has  a  voice,  and  says — "  There 
is  room  under  the  solitary  birch  which  waves  over  me."  The 
city  cemetery  hath  a  voice,  and  says — "  Crowded  as  I  am,  I  can 
yet  open  a  corner  for  thy  dust ;  yet  there  is  room."  The  field 
of  battle  says — "  There  is  room.  I  have  earth  enough  to  cover 
all  my  slain."      The  wildernesses  have  a  voice,  and  say — 


220  CIRCUMSTANCES    MODIFYINa  "" 

"  There  is  room  in  us — -room  for  the  travelers  who  explore  our 
sands  or  our  snows — room  for  the  caravans  that  carry  their 
merchandise  across  our  dreadful  solitudes."  The  depth  of  the 
ocean  says — "  Thousands  have  gone  down  within  me-— nay,  an 
entire  world  has  become  the  prey  of  ray  waters,  still  my  cav- 
erns are  not  crowded  ;  yet  there  is  room."  The  heart  of  the 
earth  has  a  voice — a  hollow  voice — and  says — "  What  are  Ko- 
rah  and  his  company  to  me  ?  I  am  empty ;  yet  there  is  room." 
Do  not  all  the  graves  compose  thus  one  melancholy  chorus,  and 
say — "  Yet  there  is  room  ;  room  for  thee,  thou  maiden,  adorned 
with  virtue  and  loveliness  ;  room  for  thee,  thou  aged  man ; 
room  for  thee,  thou  saint,  as  surely  as  there  was  room  for  thy 
Savior ;  room  for  thee,  thou  sinner,  as  surely  as  thy  kindred 
before  thee  have  laid  themselves  and  their  iniquities  down  in 
the  dust ;  room  for  all,  for  all  must  in  us  at  last  he  down." 

But  is  this  sad  cry  to  resound  forever  ?  No  ;  for  we  are  lis- 
tening for  a  mightier  voice,  which  is  yet  to  pierce  the  cold  ear 
of  death,  and  drown  the  dull  monotony  of  the  grave.  How 
magnificent,  even  were  they  fictitious,  but  how  much  more,  as 
recording  a  fact,  the  words — "  All  that  are  in  the  graves  shall 
hear  his  voice,  and  shall  come  forth."  To  what  voices  do  the 
dead  not  listen  !  Music  can  charm  the  serpent,  but  it  can  not 
awaken  the  dead.  The  voice  of  an  orator  can  rouse  a  nation  to 
frenzy,  but  lot  him  try  his  eloquence  on  the  dead,  and  a  hollow 
echo  will  rebuke  his  folly.  The  thunder  in  the  heavens  can 
appall  a  city,  but  there  is  one  spot  in  it  where  it  excites  no 
alarm,  and  that  spot  is  the  tomb. 

"  The  lark's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  arouse  them  from  their  narrow  bed." 

There  is  but  one  voice  which  the  dead  will  hear.  It  is  that 
voice  which  shall  utter  the  words — "  Awake  and  sing,  ye  that 
dwell  in  dust ;  for  thy  dew  is  as  the  dew  of  herbs,  and  the 
earth  shall  cast  out  the  dead." 

Was  it  a  sublime  spectacle,  when,  at  the  cry,  "  Lazarus,  come 
forth,"  th^  dead  man  appeared  at  the  mouth  of  the  sepulcher, 


NEW    TESTAMENT    POETRY.  221 

the  hue  of  returning  life  on  his  cheek,  forming  a  strange  con- 
trast to  his  white  grave-clothes  ?  What,  then,  shall  be  said  of 
the  coming  forth  of  innumerable  Lazaruses,  of  the  whole  con- 
gregation of  the  dead — the  hermit  rising  from  his  solitary 
grotto,  the  soldier  from  his  field  of  blood,  the  sailor  from  his 
sea-sepulcher,  the  shepherd  from  his  mountain-grave  ?  To  see 
— as  in  the  season  of  spring,  the  winged  verdure  climbs  the 
mountain,  clothes  the  plain,  flushes  the  forest,  adorns  the  brink 
and  the  brow  of  the  precipice — in  this  second  spring,  a  torrent 
of  life  passing  over  the  world,  and  hving  men  coming  forth, 
where  all  before  had  been  silence,  desolation,  and  death  ;  to  see 
the  volcano  disgorging  the  dead  which  were  in  him,  and  the 
earthquake  relaxing  his  jaws,  and  giving  back  the  dead  which 
were  in  him,  and  the  sullen  tarn  restoring  her  lawful  captives, 
and  the  ocean  unrolling  and  revealing  the  victims  of  her  ""  in- 
nermost main,"  and  the  Seine  disclosing  her  suicidal  prey,  and 
the  wastes  and  wildernesses  becoming  unretentive  of  their  long- 
concealed  dead — every  pore  quickening  into  life,  every  grave 
becoming  a  womb.  This  is  the  spectacle  of  the  Christian  res- 
urrection— a  spectacle  but  once  to  be  beheld,  but  to  be  remem- 
bered forever — a  spectacle  which  every  eye  shall  witness — a 
spectacle  around  which  a  universe  shall  gather  with,  emotions 
of  uncontrollable  astonishment  and  of  fearful  joy. 

The  New  Testament  stands  and  shines  in  the  luster  of  this 
expectation.  So  important  is  the  place  of  resurrection  in  the 
system,  that  Jesus  identifies  himself  with  it,  saying — "  I  am  the 
resurrection  and  the  life."  And  from  his  empty  grave  floods 
of  meaning,  hope,  and  beauty,  flow  forth  over  the  New  Testa- 
ment page.  The  Lord's  day,  too,  forms  a  link  connecting  the 
rising  of  Christ  with  that  of  his  people,  and  is  covered  with, 
the  abundance  both  of  the  first-fruits  and  of  the  full  harvest. 

Among  the  incidents  in  the  life  of  Christ,  there  are  several  of 
an  intensely  poetical  character.  We  shall  mention  here  the 
Transfiguration.  This  singular  event  did  not  take  place,  as 
commonly  supposed,  on  Tabor.  Tabor  was  then  the  seat  of  a 
Boman  mihtary  fort.     It  took  place  on  a  high,  nameless  moun- 


222  CIRCUMSTANCES   MODIFYING 

tain,  probably  in  Galilee.  It  was  seemingly  on  the  Sabbath- 
day  ("After  six  days,  Jesus  took  Peter,  James,  and  John,  up 
into  a  high  mountain  apart")  that  this  grand  exception  to  the 
tenor  of  Christ's  earthly  history  was  manifested.  It  was  a  re- 
hearsal of  his  Ascension.  His  form,  which  had  been  bent  under 
a  load  of  sorrow  (a  bend  more  glorious  than  the  bend  of  the 
rainbow),  now  erected  itself,  like  the  palm-tree  from  pressure, 
and  he  became  like  unto  a  "  pillar  in  the  temple  of  his  God." 
His  brow  expanded ;  its  wrinkles  of  care  fled,  and  the  sweat- 
drops  of  his  climbing  toil  were  transmuted  into  sparks  of  glory. 
His  eye  flashed  forth,  like  the  sun  from  behind  a  cloud — nay, 
his  whole  frame  became  transparent,  as  if  it  were  one  eye.  The 
light  which  had  long  lain  in  it  concealed  was  now  unvailed  in 
full  effulgence  :  "  His  face  did  shine  as  the  sun."  His  very 
raiment  was  caught  in  a  shower  of  radiance,  and  became  white 
as  no  fuller  on  earth  could  whiten  it ;  and  who  shall  describe 
the  luster  of  his  streaming  hair,  or  the  eloquent  silence  of  that 
smile  which  sate,  like  the  love  of  God,  upon  his  lips  ? 


"  What  hill  is  like  to  Tabor  hill,  in  beauty  and  in  fame, 
For  there,  in  sad  days  of  his  flesh,  o'er  Christ  a  glory  came, 
And  light  o'erflowed  him  like  a  sea,  and  raised  his  shining  brow, 
And  the  voice  came  forth,  which  bade  all  worlds  the  Son  of  God 
avow  V 


This  radiance  passed  away.  The  glory  of  the  transfigured 
Jesus  faded  as  the  red  cloud  fades  in  the  west,  when  the  sun 
has  set.  (And  how  could  the  disciples  bear  the  change  ?  And 
yet,  as  Christ,  in  his  coronation  robes,  had  seemed,  perhaps, 
distant  and  strange  to  them,  did  not  his  returning  self  appear 
dearer,  if  less  splendid,  than  his  glorified  humanity  ?)  But  the 
glory  did  not  pass  without  leaving  a  mild  reflex  upon  the  page 
of  Scripture.  "  We  were  with  him  in  the  holy  mount,"  says 
Peter ;  and  was  not  the  transfigured  Christ  in  his  eye  when  he 
Bpeaks  immediately  after  of  "  The  day-star  arising  in  our 
hearts  ?"    And  John's  picture  of  Christ  in  the  Apocalypse,  is  a 


NEW    TESTAMENT    POETRY.  223 

colossal  copy  of  tlie  figure  he  had  seen  on  the  holy  mount, 
vibrating  between  dust  and  Deity,  at  once  warm  as  humanity^ 
and  glorious  as  God.  • 

As  jDFoducing  or  controlling  the  poetry  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, next  to  the  resurrection,  stands  the  incarnation.  "  Will 
God  in  very  deed  dwell  with  men  upon  the  earth  V  Will 
God,  above  all,  dwell  in  a  form  of  human  flesh,  and  so  dwell, 
that  we  must  say  of  it,  "  God  is  here,"  nay,  "  this  is  God  ?" 
Is  there  found  a  point  where  the  finite  and  the  infinite  meet, 
mingle  without  confusion,  marry  without  compulsion,  and  is  this 
point  the  Man  of  Galilee  ?  In  fact,  the  incarnation  and  poetry  bear 
a  resemblance.  Poetry  is  truth  dwelling  in  beauty.  The  incarna- 
tion is  the  Word  "  made"  holy  and  beauteous  "  flesh."  Poetry  is 
the  everlasting  descent  of  the  Jupiter  of  the  True  into  the  arms 
of  the  Danae  of  the  Beautiful,  in  a  shower  of  Gold.  The  incar- 
nation is  God  the  Spirit,  descending  on  Jesus  the  perfect  man, 
like  a  dove,  and  abiding  upon  and  within  him.  The  difference 
is,  that  while  the  truth  of  Jesus  is  entirely  moral,  that  of  poetry 
is  more  varied ;  and  that  while  the  one  incarnation  is  personal 
and  real,  the  other  is  hypothetical  and  ideal.  Man  and  God 
have  rhymed  together ;  and  the  glorious  couplet  is,  "  the  mys- 
tery of  godliness,  God  manifest  in  the  flesh." 

From  this  fact  have  sprung  the  matchless  antitheses  and  cli- 
maxes of  Paul's  prose  poetry,  Peter's  fervid  meditations  on  the 
glory  of  Christ,  and  John's  pan  tings  of  love  toward  the  "  Man 
God,"  on  whose  bosom  he  had  leaned,  and  whose  breath  had 
made  him  forever  warm. 

JBut,  without  dwelling  on  other  circumstances  modifying  New 
Testament  poetry,  we  pass  to  speak,  in  the  next  chapter,  of  the 
Poetry  of  the  Gospels,  and  of  that  transcendent  poet  who  died 
on  Calvary. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

Perhaps  we  had  better  have  designated  this  chapter  "  The 
Poetry  of  Jesus,"  for  nearly  all  the  poetry  in  the  four  Evangel- 
ists clusters  in,  around  his  face,  form,  bearing,  and  words. 

The  word  "  character,"  as  applied  to  Jesus,  is  a  misnomer. 
Character  seems  generally  to  mean  something  outstanding  from 
the  being — a  kind  of  dress  worn  outwardly  ;  at  best,  a  faint 
index  to  the  quahties  within.  Thus,  to  say  of  a  man,  "  he  has 
a  good  moral  character,"  is  to  say  little.  You  still  ask,  what 
is  he  ?  what  is  the  nature  of  his  being  ?  to  what  order  does  he 
belong  ?  is  he  of  the  earth  earthy,  or  born  from  above  ?  It  is 
of  Christ's  being,  not  his  character,  that  we  would  speak,  while 
seeking  to  show  its  essential  poetry. 

The  company  of  the  disciples  in  the  "  Acts,"  have  answered, 
by  anticipation,  all  questions  about  Christ's  being,  in  the  mem- 
orable words,  "  thy  hohj  child,  Jesus."  He  was  a  child — a 
holy  child — a  divine  child — an  eternal  child.  He  seems  still 
to  sit  "  among  the  doctors,"  with  Zoroaster,  and  Moses,  and 
Confucius,  and  Socrates,  and  Plato,  ranged  around  him,  "  both 
hearing  them  and  asking  them  questions,"  while  they,  like  the 
sheaves  of  Joseph's  brethren,  are  compelled  to  bow  down  before 
the  noble  boy.  His  sermons,  possessing  no  logical  sequence 
and  coherence,  are  the  utterances  of  a  divine  infant ;  the  tongue 
is  just  a  produced  heart;  and  his  words  flow  up,  in  irregular 
yet  calm  succession,  from  the  depth  below.  And  yet  all  he 
says  is,  "  like  an  angel,  vital  everywhere,"  and  each  word  is  a 
whole.    Like  jewels  from  a  crown,  the  sentences  drop  down 


POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS.  225 

entire :  "  Ye  are  the  light  of  the  world ;"  "  Ye  are  the  salt  of 
the  earth ;"  "  What  I  tell  you  in  darkness,  that  speak  ye  in 
light ;"  "  If  thine  eye  be  single,  thy  whole  body  shall  be  full 
of  light ;"  "  If  the  hght  that  is  in  thee  be  darkness,  how  great 
is  that  darkness  ?"  (How  many  dark  lanterns — such  as  mis- 
guided men  of  genius— does  this  one  sentence  inclose  I)  And 
are  not  all  inconsistent,  half-formed,  or  conventional  systems  of 
morality,  exploded  by  the  grand  generality — -the  scope  tran- 
scending far  the  duration  of  this  mortal  hfe  for  its  aim  and  ac- 
complishment— of  the  words,  "  Be  ye  perfect,  as  your  Father 
in  heaven  is  perfect  ?" 

But ,  wholeness  belonged  to  more  than  Christ's  words;  it 
belonged  to  himself  and  to  his  words,  because  they  faithfully 
and  fully  represented  himself,  even  as  the  acorn  carries  in  it 
the  figure  of  the  oak.  He  was  entire ;  and  his  possession  of 
all  virtues  was  signified  by  the  gentle  calm  which  reigned  over, 
and  inclosed  them  within  it.  Just  as  the  whole  man  comes  out 
in  his  smile,  the  "fullness  of  the  Godhead"  lay,  hke  a  still, 
settled  smile,  on  Christ's  meek  face.  His  eye  concentrated  all 
the  rays  of  the  Divine  Omniscience  into  its  mild  and  tearful  orb. 
His  heart  was  a  miniature  ocean  of  love.  His  arm  seemed 
the  symbol  of  Omnipotence.  His  voice  was  the  faint  and  thrill- 
ing echo  of  the  sound  of  many  waters.  We  are  apt  to  think 
and  speak  as  if  the  attributes  of  Divinity  were  somehow  crowded 
and  crushed  into  Mary's  son.  But  those  who  saw  him  and 
believed,  felt  that  Godhead  lay  in  him  softly  and  fully,  as  the 
image  of  the  sun  hes  in  a  drop  of  dew.  "  In  him  dwelt  the 
fullness  of  Godhead  bodily,"  as  a  willing  tenant,  not  as  a  reluc- 
tant caj)tive. 

But,  as  a  man,  as  well  as  the  incarnation  of  Godhead,  he  was 
perfect.  Beside  the  stately,  ancient,  and  awful  forms  of  the 
patriarchs  of  the  old  world,  and  the  bards  and  first  kings  of 
Israel,  he  seems  young  and  slender.  What  were  his  years  to 
those  of  Adam  and  Methuselah  ?  He  wrote  not,  like  Solomon, 
on  trees — from  the  cedar  on  Lebanon  to  the  hyssop  which 
springeth  out  of  the  wall.     He  had  no  Sinai  for  pedestal,  as 


226  POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

Moses  had.  He  had  not  the  mighty  speech  of  Isaiah.  But  he 
possessed  what  all  these  wanted-— he  possessed  perfection.  He 
was  only  a  child,  but  he  was  a  celestial  child  ;  he  was  only  a 
lamb,  but  it  was  a  lamb  without  blemish  and  without  spot.  In 
him,  as  God-man,  all  contrasts  and  contradictions  were  blended 
and  reconciled.  You  hear  him  now,  in  tones  soft  as  youthful 
love,  preaching  concord  to  his  disciples ;  and  again,  in  the  voice 
of  a  terrible  thunder,  and  with  the  gestures  of  an  avenger,  de- 
nouncing wrath  upon  the  hypocrite  and  the  formalist,  the 
Pharisee  and  the  Scribe.  Hear  yonder  infant  weeping  in  the 
manger  of  Bethlehem.  That  httle  trembling  hand  is  tlie  hand 
of  him  who  made  the  world  ;  that  feeble,  wailing  cry  is  the 
voice  of  him  who  spake,  and  it  was  done — who  commanded 
and  it  stood  fast.  See  that  carpenter  laboring  in  the  shed  at 
Nazareth !  The  penalty  of  Adam  is  standing  on  his  brow  in 
the  sweat-drops  of  his  toil.  That  carpenter  is  all  the  while 
directing  the  march  of  innumerable  suns,  and  supplying  the 
wants  of  endless  worlds.  Behold  yonder  weeper  at  the  grave 
of  Lazarus  !  His  tears  are  far  too  numerous  to  be  counted ;  it  is 
a  shower  of  holy  tears,  and  the  bystanders  are  saying — "  Be- 
hold, how  he  loved  him !"  That  weeper  is  the  Eternal  God, 
who  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  off  all  faces.  See,  again, 
that  sufferer  in  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane  !  He  is  alone  ;  there 
is  no  one  with  him  in  his  deep  agony ;  and  you  hear  the  large 
drops  of  his  anguish,  "like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower,"  fall^ 
ing  slowly  and  heavily  to  the  ground.  And,  louder  than  these 
drops,  there  comes  a  voice,  saying — "  Father,  if  it  be  possible, 
let  this  cup  pass  from  me."  The  utterer  of  that  sad  cry,  the 
swelterer  of  those  dark  drops,  is  he  whom  the  harps  of  heaven 
are  even  now  praising,  and  who  is  basking  in  the  sunshine  of 
Jehovah's  smile.  "  Without  controversy,  great  is  the  mystery 
of  godliness." 

The  reticence  of  Jesus  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  his 
characteristics.  What  he  might  have  told  us,  in  comparison 
of  what  he  has  ! — of  man,  of  God,  of  the  future  on  earth,  of  the 
eternal  state !     "  He  knew  what  was  in  man."     "  The  Son  only 


POETRY    OF    THE    GOSPELS.  227 

knoweth  the  Father."  "  Thou,  Lord,  knowest  all  things."  But 
he  remained  silent.  Nor  was  his  silence  forced  and  reluctant. 
It  was  wise  and  willing.  It  seemed  natural  to  him,  as  is  then' 
twinkling  silence  to  the  stars.  This  surrounded  him  with  a 
peculiar  grandeur.  The  greatest  objects  in  the  universe  are  the 
stillest.  The  ocean  has  a  voice,  but  the  sun  is  silent.  The 
seraphim  sing,  the  Shekinah  is  dumb.  The  forests  murmur, 
but  the  constellations  speak  not.  Aaron  spoke,  Moses'  face  but 
shone.  Sweetly  might  the  high-priest  discourse,  but  the  Urim 
and  Thummim,  the  blazing  stones  upon  his  breast,  flashed  forth 
a  meaning  deeper  and  diviner  far.  Jesus,  like  a  sheep  before  her 
shearers,  was  dumb  in  death  ;  but  still  more  marvelous  was  the 
self-denied  and  God-like  silence  of  his  life. 

The  secret  of  this  silence  lay  partly  in  the  practicalness  of  his 
purpose.  He  had  three  great  things  to  do  in  the  space  of  three 
years,  and  he  could  spare  no  time  for  doing  or  talking  about 
aught  else.  He  had  to  preach  a  pure  morality,  to  live  a  pure 
life,  and  to  die  a  death  of  substitution  so  vast,  as  to  stop  the  mo- 
lions  of  the  universe  till  it  was  over.  This  was  the  full  baptism 
wherewith  he  was  to  be  baptized.  He  was  straitened  till  it  was 
accomplished.  He  bent  his  undivided  energies  to  finish  this 
threefold  work ;  and  he  did  finish  it.  He  reduced  morality  to 
a  clear  essence,  forming  a  perfect  mirror  to  the  conscience  of 
man.  He  melted  down  all  codes  of  the  past  into  two  consum- 
mate precepts.  To  these  he  added  the  double  sanction  of  love 
and  terror.  And  thus  condensed,  and  thus  sanctioned,  he  ap- 
plied them  fearlessly  to  all  classes  by  whom  he  was  surrounded. 
He  did  something  far  more  difficult.  He  led  a  life — and  such 
a  life  !  of  poverty  and  power,  of  meanness  and  grandeur,  of  con- 
tempt and  glory,  of  contact  with  sinners  and  of  perfect  personal 
purity — a  life  the  most  erratic  and  the  most  heavenly — a  life 
from  which  demons  shrank  in  terror,  round  which  men  crowded 
in  eager  curiosity,  and  over  which  angels  stooped  in  wonder  and 
love — a  life  which  gathered  about  the  meek  current  of  its  benev- 
olence the  fiery  chariots  and  fiery  horses  of  all  miraculous  gifts 
and  all  divine  energies.     And  having  thus  lived,  he  came  purged. 


228         ^  POETRY    OF   THE    GOSPELS. 

as  by  fire,  to  a  death,  which  seemed  to  have  borrowed  materials 
of  terror,  from  earth,  heaven,  and  hell,  to  bow  down  along  with 
its  own  burden  upon  his  solitary  head. 

But,  to  humble  him  to  submission,  the  fearful  load  of  Calvary 
was  not  required.  He  was  humble  all  his  life  long,  and  never 
more  so  than  when  working  his  miracles.  How  he  shrunk,  after 
they  were  wrought,  from  the  echo  of  their  fame  !  He  did  not  re- 
buke the  woman  of  Samaria  for  proclaiming  her  conversion,  but 
he  often  rebuked  his  disciples  for  spreading  the  report  of  his 
miracles.  These  were  great,  but  his  purpose  was  greater  far. 
They  were  an  equipage  worthy  of  a  god,  but  only  an  equipage. 
If  we  would  understand  his  profound  lowliness,  let  us  see  him, 
who  had  been  clothed  with  the  inaccessible  light  as  a^^garment, 
girding  himself  with  a  towel,  and  washing  his  disciples'  feet ;  or 
let  us  look  at  him,  who  erst  came  from  "  Teman  and  from  Paran," 
in  all  the  pomp  of  Godhead,  riding  on  an  ass,  and  a  colt,  the  foal 
of  an  ass ;  or  let  us  watch  the  woman  washing  his  feet  with  tears, 
and  wiping  them  with  the  hairs  of  her  head ;  or  let  us  sit  down 
by  the  side  of  the  well  at  Samaria,  and  see  him  who  fainted  not, 
neither  was  weary,  with  "  his  six  days'  work — a  world,"  wearied 
upon  this  solitary  way,  and  hear  him,  who  was  the  Word  of 
God,  speaking  to  a  poor  and  dissolute  female  as  "  never  man 
spake."  Surely  one  great  charm  of  this  charmed  life,  one  chief 
power  of  this  all-powerful  and  all-conforming  story,  arises  from 
the  lowliness  of  the  base  of  that  ladder,  the  "  top  of  which  did 
reach  unto  heaven." 

But  this  lowliness  was  mingled  with  gentleness.  It  was  a 
flower  which  grew  along  the  ground — not  a  fire  running  along 
H.  We  have  no  doubt  that  this  expressed  itself  in  the  very 
features  and  expression  of  his  countenance.  We  have  seen  but 
one  pictured  representation  which  answered  to  our  ideal  of  the 
face  and  figure  of  Jesus.  It  was  the  work  of  an  Italian  master, 
whose  name  we  have  forgotten,  and  represented  Christ  talking 
to  the  woman  of  Samaria.  It  was  a  picture  which  might  have 
converted  a  soul.  There  sat  the  wearied  Savior,  by  the  well- 
side — ^his  eye  full  of  a  far  look  of  love  and  sorrow,  as  if  he  saw 


POETRY    OF   THE    GOSPELS.  229 

the  whole  degraded  species  in  the  one  sinner  before  him,  and 
his  hand  half  open,  as  if  it  held  in  it  "  the  living  water" — the 
woman  listening  with  downcast  looks,  and  tears  trickling  down 
her  cheeks — her  pitcher,  resting  on  the  mouth  of  the  well,  and 
behind  her,  seen  in  the  distance,  the  sunny  sky  and  glowing 
mountains  of  Palestine.  But,  in  the  noble  figure  and  the  ethe- 
real grandeur  of  his  countenance,  you  saw  that  the  gentleness 
was  not  that  of  woman,  nor  even  that  of  man  ;  it  was  the  gentle- 
ness of  him  whose  "  dwelling  is  with  the  humble  and  the  contrite 
in  sj^irit,  to  revive  the  spirit  of  the  humble,  and  the  heart  of  the 
contrite  ones."  It  was  this  which  led  him  to  gentle  associates 
— to  the  society  of  the  holy  women,  and  of  those  children  who 
saw  the  simplicity  of  infancy  blended  with  the  perspicacity  of 
Godhead  in  the  same  face,  and  felt  at  once  awe-struck  and  at- 
tracted. The  babes  and  sucklings  saw  and  felt  what  was  hid 
from  the  wise  and  prudent.  But  the  chief  scene  for  the  exer- 
cise of  this  exceeding  gentleness  was  the  company  of  publicans, 
sinners,  and  harlots.  The  sight  of  personified  purity  mingling 
with  the  vilest  of  beings,  with  condescension,  blame,  hope,  and 
pity  expressed  in  his  countenance,  instead  of  disgust  and  horror, 
w^as  touching  beyond  the  reach  of  tears.  Like  the  moon  looking 
full  in  upon  a  group  of  evil-doers,  at  once  rebuking,  softening, 
and  spiritualizing  the  scene,  so  at  Simon's  table  shone  on  the 
sinners  around,  the  shaded  orb  of  the  Redeemer's  face,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  heaven  were  dimly  dawning  upon  the  imminent 
victims  of  hell. 

And  yet,  with  this  mildness,  there  was  blended  a  certain 
ineffable  dignity.  The  dignity  of  a  child  approaches  the 
sublime.  It  is  higher  than  the  dignity  of  a  king — higher,  be- 
cause less  conscious.  It  resembles  rather  the  dignity  of  the  tall 
rock,  or  of  the  pine  surmounting  its  summit.  This  dignity, 
compounded  of  purity  and  unconsciousness,  was  united  in  Christ 
to  that  which  attends  knowledge  and  power.  It  was  this  which 
made  the  people  exclaim,  that  he  taught  with  authority,  and 
not  as  the  scribes — that  wrung  from  the  officers  sent  to  appre- 
hend him,  the  testimony  that  never  man  spake  like  this  man, 


230  POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

and  rendered  lofty,  instead  of  ludicrous,  his  asseveration,  "  I 
and  my  Father  are  one."  A  dignity  this  which  deserted  him 
not,  even  when  he  wore  the  scarlet  robe,  and  carriejd  the  reed 
for  a  scepter,  and  the  thorns  for  a  crown ;  nay,  which  trans- 
figured these  into  glorious  emblems  in  the  blaze  of  spirit  which 
shone  around  him.  The  old  painters  often  paint  Christ  with  a 
halo  around  his  head.  No  such  halo  had,  or  needed,  that  holy 
brow ;  it  was  enough  that  a  divine  dignity  formed  a  hedge 
around  it. 

But,  "  on  all  his  glory,"  there  was  another  "  defense" — a  red 
rim  of  anger  circled  it  at  tim^s.  The  "  Lamb"  became,  at  rare 
intervals,  angry,  and  sinned,  not  in  feeling  nor  in  expressing 
that  righteous  rage — righteous,  although  seeming  strange  as 
a  volcano  in  a  valley,  or  as  thunder  from  the  blue  sky.  The 
forked  flames  of  Sinai  burst  out  from  Olivet,  the  lips  of  eternal 
love  become  white  with  the  foam  of  indignation,  and  upon  his 
enemies  there  fall  "  woes"  heavier  than  those  of  the  ancient 
seers,  and  which  seem  to  rehearse  the  last  words,  "  Depart,  ye 
cursed."  There  are  no  such  tremendous  voices  in  all  literature 
as  these.  We  feel,  as  we  listen,  that  there  is  no  enemy  like  an 
offended  lover — no  fire  like  the  sheen  of  a  dead  affection — no 
element  so  bitter  as  that  into  which  neglect  changes  the  sweet 
■ — no  words  like  these,  "The  wrath  of  the  Lamb."  "The 
wrath  of  the  Lamb !"  These  are  words  from  which  heaven 
and  earth  shall  flee  away,  and  which  shall  make  its  victims  cry 
out  to  the  rocks  and  the  mountains,  "  Cover  us,  cover  us  from 
the  wrath  of  him  that  sitteth  upon  the  throne,  and  of  the  Lamh ;''"' 
but  the  rocks  and  the  mountains  will  not  reply. 

Such  displays  of  anger  were  few  and  fjir  between.  They 
seem  escapes,  albeit,  always  just  in  their  cause  and  holy  in 
their  spirit.  And  escapes,  too,  seem  his  prophecies  and  his 
miracles.  "  Virtue  goes  out  of  him."  Portions  of  his  infinite 
knowledge  slip,  as  if  involuntarily,  from  his  mind,  and  now  and 
then  crumbs  drop  down  from  the  table  of  his  Omnipotence 
upon  the  happy  bystanders.  It  is  always  as  if  he  were  restrain- 
ing his  boundless  powers  and  gifts,  as  if  he  "  stayed  his  thunder 


POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS.  231 

in  mid-volley ;"  for,  does  he  not  say  himself,  "  Thinkest  thou 
that  I  can  not  now  pray  to  my  Father,  and  he  shall  presently 
give  me  more  than  twelve  legions  of  angels  ?"  Miracles,  as  we 
have  before  hinted,  he  holds  in  severe  subordination  to  the 
moral  purposes  of  his  office,  and  hence  he  would  never  work 
them,  either  merely  to  gratify  curiosity  or  expressly  to  corrob- 
orate his  mission.  They  came  from  him  like  sudden  reflec- 
tions of  the  sun  upon  the  eye  or  brow,  and  thus  they  answered 
the  important  purpose  of  turning  attention  toward  him — of 
proving  that  what  he  said  was  not  to  be  treated  lightly — of 
showing  him  to  be  superior  to  a  mere  teacher — of  starting  the 
question,  "  Is  the  doctrine  worthy  of  the  magnificence  of  the 
circumstances  in  which  it  is  set  ?" — of  causing  a  finger  of  su- 
pernal light  to  rest  upon  the  head  of  the  lowly  youth  of  Naza- 
reth— and  to  mark  him  out,  once  and  forever,  to  the  world. 
The  feeling,  too,  that  a  miraculous  energy  w^as  fluctuating 
around,  and  might  flame  up  in  a  moment  into  a  conflagration, 
dangerous  to  be  approached,  served  to  clear  a  space  about,  and 
pave  a  way  before  him,  and  to  leave  him  ample  time  and  room 
ibr  working  the  work  his  Father  had  given  him  to  do. 

Superiority  to  pride  of  knowledge  and  power  was  a  distin- 
guishing feature  of  Jesus.  Pride  can  not,  indeed,  coexist  with*, 
perfect  knowledge  and  power,  for  it  implies  as  certainly  some- 
thing above,  as  something  below  it.  The  proud  man  looks  up 
as  well  as  down,  measuring  himself  with  what  is  beyond,  as 
well  as  with  what  is  beneath  him.  But  this  superiority  in  our 
blessed  Lord  was  only  a  part  of  that  unconsciousness  which  so 
signally  characterized  him.  He  seemed  conscious  of  God  only. 
He  overflowed  with  God.  Even  when  he  spoke  of  himself,  it 
was  but  as  a  vessel  where  God  dwelt.  His  frequent  "I"  is 
always  running  into  the  great  "  Thou"  of  God.  "  He  that  hath 
seen  me,  hath  seen  the  Father."  This  was  all  that  we  can  con- 
ceive of  absorption  into  the  Deity.  The  essence,  indeed,  is 
never  lost,  nor  the  personality  confounded ;  but  the  Son,  ever 
rushing  into  his  Father's  arras,  seems  almost  identified  with  him. 
*   Is  the  term  geniality  too  common  and  too  low  to  be  applied 


232  POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

to  this  transcendent  being  ?  And  yet  it  forms  but  a  true  and 
elegant  version  of  the  rude  vernacular  of  his  enemies.  "  Be- 
hold a  gluttonous  man  and  a  wine-bibber."  No  fugitive  from 
the  temptations  and  responsibilities  of  man  was  man's  Savior. 
He  feared  them  not ;  he  faced  them,  and  he  never  fell  before 
them.  He  came  "  eating  and  drinking,"  and  angels  wondered, 
and  sinners  wondered,  as  they  saw  those  common  actions  glori- 
fied into  symbols  and  sacraments,  the  bread  becoming  the  "  corn 
of  heaven"  under  his  smile,  and  the  wine  seeming  pure  as  his 
own  blood  beneath  his  blessing. 

On  all  anchoritism  and  monachism,  he  looked  ^down.  Un- 
breathed  valor,  unexercised  virtue,  chastity  untried,  compulsory 
temperance,  the  ostrich  device  of  hiding  the  eyes  from  danger, 
were  alien,  if  not  abhorrent,  to  his  frank,  large,  and  fearless  na- 
ture. Think  of  the  marriage  at  Cana  of  Galilee.  We  stay  not 
with  triflers,  to  inquire  at  length  into  the  quality  of  the  wine 
there  transmuted.  Suffice  it,  that  in  the  language  of  the  Eton 
boy,  "  The  conscious  water  saw  her  God,  and  blushed."  Suffice 
it  that  this,  surely,  like  all  Christ's  miracles,  must  have  been 
perfect  in  its  kind.  He  made  the  tongue  of  the  dumb,  not 
merely  to  speak,  but  to  sing ;  he  made  the  lame  not  only  to 
walk,  but  to  leap  as  a  hart ;  the  blind  to  see,  at  first,  indeed, 
men  like  trees  walking,  but  ultimately  with  the  utmost  clear- 
ness ;  and  the  paralytic  to  take  up  his  bed  and  walk  ;  the  calm 
he  produced  on  the  sea  was  a  "  great  calm ;"  the  bread  he  mul- 
tiplied must  have  been  of  the  finest  of  the  wheat ;  and  doubt- 
less the  wine  he  renewed  in  the  vessels  of  Cana  was  of  the  rich- 
est of  the  vintage.  His  lessons,  stated  or  implied  here  or 
elsewhere  on  the  subject,  are  none  the  less  imperative.  They 
seem  to  be  these — first,  that  all  excess  is  sin  ;  secondly,  that  the 
moderate  use  of  God's  bounties  can  never  be  charged  in  itself 
with  iniquity ;  but,  thirdly,  he  never  denies,  nay,  the  spirit  of 
his  teaching  rather  affirms,  that  there  are  cases  and  constitutions 
where  even  moderation  may  be  dangerous,  as  the  parent  and 
prelude  of  undue  indulgence,  and  where  sacrifice  may  be  better 
than  mercy. 


POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS.  235 

And  yet  tradition  has  said  that  Jesus  was  seldom  seen  to 
smile,  and  never  to  laugh.  Such  traditions  we  hold  worthless, 
for  whv  should  not  smiles,  at  least,  like  birds  of  calm,  have 
often  sat  upon  his  lips,  and  God's  sunshine  upon  that  "hill  of 
holiness,"  his  divine  head  ?  But  there  lay  a  burden  upon  his 
soul,  which  made  his  smiles  few,  and  his  sunshine  a  scattered 
light.  Even  as  the  noble  charger  smells  the  battle  afar  off,  and 
paws  restlessly  till  he  has  mingled  with  the  thunder  of  the  cap- 
tains and  the  shouting,  so  did  this  "  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah" 
feel  the  approach  of  his  foes,  nor  could  he  rest,  nor  could  he 
slumber,  till  he  had  fought  the  battle,  and  gained  the  victory  of 
the  world.  There  were  constant  vision  and  expectation  of  the 
decease  at  Jerusalem,  and  this  bred  a  burning  desire  after  the 
passion  of  the  Cross,  which  formed  a  slow,  subdued  fever  within 
him.  "  I  have  a  baptism  to  be  baptized  with,  and  how  am  I 
straitened  till  it  be  accomplished  ?  With  desire  have  I  desired 
to  eat  this  passover  ere  I  suffer."  Even  on  the  mount  of  the 
Transfiguration,  he  looked  toward  Calvary,  and  spake  of  his 
coming  death.  This  added  a  melancholy  meaning  to  his  words, 
a  nobility  to  his  aspect,  and  a  tremulous  solemnity  to  his  very 
smiles.  Great  always  is  the  life  which  stands  even,  uncon- 
sciously, in  the  shadow  of  coming  death.  The  shadow  that 
coming  event  casts  before  it  is  ever  sublime  and  sublimating. 

Yet,  as  it  drew  near,  his  manhood  came  out  in  the  form  of  a 
manlike  shudder  at  the  unspeakable  cup  which  was  given  him 
to  drink.  He  saw  down  into  it  more  clearly  than  ever  sufferer 
was  permitted  before  or  since  to  see  into  his  coming  woes  ;  and 
if  he  did  shrink  and  shiver,  the  shrinking  was  but  for  a  moment, 
and  the  shiver  proved  him  human,  and  that  his  torments  would 
not  be  the  incredible,  impossible  agonies  of  a  God,  but  those  of 
one  who  was  bone  of  our  bone,  as  well  as  the  brightness  of  the 
Father's  glory.  It  was,  indeed,  an  awful  moment,  during  which 
he  gasped  out  the  words,  "  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup 
pass  from  me."  He  had  tasted  of  its  first  drops,  and  they  were 
the  great  drops  of  the  bloody  sweat ;  he  had  looked  into  its 
contents,  and  seen  them  bubbhng  up  hke  the  springs  of  hell, 


234  POETRY    OF   THE    GOSPELS. 

and  he  gave  one  start  backward,  and  the  cup  was  just  passing 
out  of  his  hands.  Passing  into  whose  ?  Into  ours,  to  be  drained 
forever,  and  ever,  and  ever !  But,  blessed  be  his  name,  the 
start  and  spasm  were  momentary ;  he  grasped  the  cup  again, 
and  said,  in  tones  which  thrilled  every  leaf  in  the  garden, 
"  Nevertheless,  not  my  will,  but  thine  be  done." 

Death  is  often  at  once  the  close  and  the  epitome  of  life.  It 
is  the  index  at  the  end  of  the  volume.  AH  the  man's  proper- 
ties seem  to  rush  round  him  as  he  is  about  to  leave  the  world. 
This  was  eminently  true  of  Christ.  How  emphatically  he  was 
himself  in  the  judgment-hall  and  on  the  Cross  !  His  reticence 
became  a  silence  hke  that  of  a  dumb  spirit,  at  which  Pilate 
trembled.  His  gentleness  swelled  into  the  godlike,  as  he  healed 
the  servant's  ear,  or  said,  "  Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  weep  not 
for  me,  but  weep  for  yourselves,  and  for  your  children."  His 
dignity  seems  to  have  risen,  like  a  mountain-wave,  under  the 
marks  of  contempt  which  were  heaped  upon  him.  His  humility 
and  submission  assumed  an  air  of  Atlantean  grandeur,  as  the 
burden  of  the  world's  atonement  at  length  lay  fully  on  his 
shoulders.  And  power  never,  not  even  when  he  rebuked  the 
waves,  or  rode  into  Jerusalem,  lay  so  legibly  on  his  forehead  or 
in  his  eye,  as  when  he  hung  upon  the  tree.  The  Cross  was  the 
meeting-place,  not  only  of  all  the  attributes  of  Godhead,  here 
reconciled  through  its  "  witty  invention,"  but  of  all  the  attributes 
of  Christ's  princely  manhood. 

The  circumstances  of  his  death  were  worthy  of  the  character 
and  of  the  object.  While  he  hung  suspended,  the  pulse  of  the 
universe  seemed  now  to  stand  still  in  collapse,  and  now  to  run 
on  with  the  fiery  haste  of  a  feverous  paroxysm.  There  was  a 
great  earthquake,  which  opened  the  adjacent  graves,  and 
startled  the  slumbers  of  the  dead  within  them.  The  rocks  were 
rent  as  by  a  burning  hand,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  same  hand 
passed  along  to  tear  the  vail  of  the  Temple  in  sunder.  About 
the  sixth  hour,  there  was  darkness  over  all  the  land  until  the 
ninth  hour,  and  the  sun  was  darkened.  And  most  wonderful 
of  all,  a  poor  ruffian  soul,  shivering  on  the  brink  of  destruo- 


POETRY  OP  THE  GOSPELS.  235 

tion,  was,  in  tbe  very  depth  of  the  world-tragedy,  snatched,  like 
a  brand  from  the  burning,  by  the  nailed  and  bleeding  arm  of 
the  sufferer. 

It  was  meet  that  a  deep  darkness,  expressing  the  anger  of 
God,  the  evil  of  sin,  and  the  anguish  of  the  Savior,  should 
cover  the  earth — that  nature,  unable  to  look  upon  the  features 
of  her  expiring  Lord,  should  throw  a  vail  over  the  scene  and  the 
sufferer.  Nay,  is  it  a  conception  too  daring  that  this  darkness 
covered  the  universe,  that  "  all  the  bright  lights  of  heaven"  were 
darkened  over  the  Cross,  that  not  one  orb  ventured  to  shine 
while  the  "  Bright  and  Morning  Star"  was  under  echpse,  that 
from  Christ's  dying  brow  the  shadow  swept  over  suns,  constel- 
lations, and  firmaments,  till  for  three  hours,  save  the  throne  of 
the  Eternal,  all  was  gloom  ?  Be  this  as  it  may,  when  the  vail 
was  removed,  how  strange  the  revelation  !  There  hung  the 
Savior,  dead  ;  there  were  the  two  thieves,  in  the  agonies  of 
approaching  dissolution  ;  fcirther  on,  were  the  multitudes,  with 
rage,  fear,  and  gratified  revenge,  contending  on  their  faces  ;  and 
farther  on  still,  the  towers  of  the  city,  the  pinnacles  of  the 
temple,  and  the  distant  hills,  all  shining  out  as  in  a  new-born 
radiance.  For  now  the  battle  was  over,  the  victory  won,  the 
darkness  past,  the  salvation  finished,  the  Savior  himself  away, 
already  rejoicing  in  the  bowers  and  blessedness  of  the  paradise 
of  God. 

But  we  must  withdraw  our  feet  from  a  ground  so  holy,  and 
so  mysteriously  shadowed,  as  that  surrounding  the  Cross  of 
Christ..  -  Silence  here  is  devotion  ;  and  where  wonder  is  so  fully 
fed,  it  must  be  silent.  Much  as  we  admire  the  pictorial  art,  we 
do  not  like  pictures  of  the  death  of  Christ.  There  was  a  painter, 
in  ancient  Greece,  who  sought  to  represent  the  grief  of  Aga- 
memnon at  the  death  of  his  daughter,  Iphigenia.  How  did  he 
represent  it  ?  He  gained  the  praises  of  all  antiquity,  and  of  all 
time,  by  not  doing  it  at  all.  He  drew  a  curtain  over  the  face 
of  the  agonized  parent.  Thus  let  us,  in  imitation  of  the  uni- 
%'erse,  draw  a  curtain  over  the  solemn,  the  unfathomable  scene. 

Christ,  in  the  grave,  presents  softer  and  less  terrible  points  of 


236  POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

view.  He  lies  down  wearied,  exhausted,  alone,  but  triumphant 
— "  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest."  A  guard  of  soldiers  watches 
his  sepulcher ;  but  angels  are  watching  there  too,  and  the  soft 
shadows  of  their  wings  give  a  mild  sublimity  to  the  new  tomb. 
It  is  a  high  glad  day  throughout  the  invisible  moral  creation. 
Christ's  work  is  done.  The  great  redemption  is  complete.  The 
Savior's  body  "sleeps  well."  His  spirit  is  preaching  to  the 
spirits  in  prison.  The  morrow  shall  dawn  upon  his  resurrec- 
tion. And  therefore  the  sun  eclipsed  yesterday  is  shining  with 
a  serene  and  cheerful  ray.  And  perhaps  all,  except  the  mur- 
derers and  the  grieved  disciples,  feel  an  unaccountable  joy  run- 
ning in  their  veins,  as  if  some  vast  shadow  and  burden  had 
passed  away  from  them  and  from  the  world — as  if  a  danger  of 
mysterious  magnitude  had  been  somehow  escaped,  and  a  deliv- 
erance somehow  wrought  of  incalculable  meaning.  Even  now, 
beautiful  days  sometimes  stoop  down  upon  us,  like  doves  from 
heaven,  and  give  us  exquisite,  though  short-lived  pleasure — ^in 
which  earth  appears  "  a  pensive,  but  a  happy  place,"  the  sky 
the  dome  of  a  temple,  Eden  recalled,  and  the  millennium  antici- 
pated. But  surely  this  Sabbath,  as  it  is  floated  softly  and 
slowly  to  the  west,  seemed  to  be  "  covered  with  silver,  and  its 
feathers  with  yellow  gold,"  and  to  wear  on  its  wings  the  smile 
which  had  rested  on  the  young  world,  when  God  pronounced  it 
"  very  good."  And  were  there  not  heard  in  the  air,  above  the 
hill  of  Olives,  or  down  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat,  or  amid  the 
trees  of  Gethsemane,  snatches  of  celestial  music,  words  of  mys- 
tic song,  proclaiming  that  the  jubilee  of  earth  had  awakened  the 
sympathies  and  the  responses  of  heaveti,  and  that  the  "  young- 
eyed  cherubim"  were  rehearsing  the  melody  they  are  to  sing  on 
the  morrow  in  full  chorus,  when  the  scarcely  buried  Savior  is 
to  spring  up,  as  from  sleep,  to  honor,  glory,  and  immortality  ? 
But,  without  dwelhng  on  the  other  poetical  events  of  his  his- 
tory— on  the  morning  when  he  rose  early  from  the  grave — oa 
bis  mysterious  and  fluctuating  sojourn  for  forty  days  on  earth, 
after  his  resurrection  (as  if  he  loved  to  linger  in  and  haunt 
that  dear  spot,  and  deferred  his  very  glory  to  the  last  moment, 


POETRY    OF   THE    GOSPELS.  237 

for  the  sake  of  liis  disciples) — on  that  immortal  journey  to 
Em  mails — on  his  ascension  far  above  all  heavens,  arising  from 
the  hill  of  Olives,  with  no  chariot  of  fire,  or  horses  of  fire,  but 
in  his  own  native  might  and  instinctive  tendency  upward — on 
his  entrance  and  his  session  at  the  right  hand  of  God — we  come 
to  speak  of  the  poetry  which  cleaves  to  those  wondrous  words 
"W^hich  he  has  left  behind  him. 

The  manner  of  Christ's  life,  as  he  uttered  his  parables  and 
other  sayings,  was  in  the  highest  degree  poetical.  It  was  the 
life  of  a  stranger  on  this  earth,  of  a  wanderer,  of  one  who  had 
no  home  but  the  house  not  made  with  hands,  which  he  had  him- 
self built.  Ilence  we  identify  his  image  with  nature,  and  ever 
see  him  on  lonely  roads,  midnight  mountains,  silent  or  stormy 
lakes,  fields  of  corn,  or  the  deep  wildernesses  of  his  country. 
Every  step  trod  by  the  old  seers,  was  retrod  by  him,  as  if  to 
efface  their  fiery  vestiges,  and  make  the  regions,  over  which 
they  had  swept  like  storms,  green  again.  He  was  only  sent  to 
the  lost  sheep  of  Israel,  but  he  more  than  once  approached  to 
the  very  boundaries  of  his  allotted  field.  We  find  him,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  neighborhood  of  Tyre  and  Sidon,  straying  by 
a  mightier  sea  than  that  of  Tiberias,  and  lifting  his  eyes  to  a 
loftier  summit  than  that  of  Tabor.  "  He  must  needs"  see  Leb- 
anon, as  well  as  pass  through  Samaria.  His  were  not,  indeed, 
journeys  of  sentiment,  but  of  mercy ;  and  yet,  why  should  he 
not  have  gazed  with  rapture  upon  the  peaceful,  the  pure,  and 
the  lofty,  in  the  works,  while  he  did  the  will,  of  God  ?  This 
was,  peradventure,  the  chief  source  of  his  solace  amid  suffering 
and  weariness.  He  was  not  recognized  by  men,  but  the  lilies 
of  the  field  looked  up  meaningly  in  his  face,  the  "  waters  per- 
ceived him — they  saw  him  well,"  the  winds  lingered  amid  his 
hair,  the  sunbeams  smiled  on  his  brow,  the  landscape  from  the 
summit  seemed  to  crouch  lovingly  at  his  feet,  and  the  stars 
from  their  far  thrones  to  bend  him  down  obeisance.  He,  and 
he  alone,  of.  all  men,  felt  at  home  in  nature,  and  able  to  see  it, 
and  call  it,  "  My  father's  house."  He  felt  not  warmed  by,  but 
warming  the  sun — not  walking  in  the  light  of,  but  enlightening 


238  POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

the  world,  and  could  look  on  its  great  orbs  as  but  the  "  many 
mansions"  for  his  spiritual  seed.  Of  all  men  he  only  (mentally 
and  m-orally)  stood  erect^  and  this  divine  uprightness  it  was 
which  turned  the  world  upside  down.  The  poetical  point  of 
view  of  nature,  is  not  that  of  distant  admiration  or  of  cold  in- 
quiry, it  is  that  of  sympathy,  amounting  to  immersion  ;  the 
poet's  soul  is  shed,  like  a  drop,  into  creation ;  but  this  process 
was  never  fully  completed,  save  in  one — in  him  who  uttered 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

Fancy  has  sometimes  revolved  the  question,  were  nature  to 
burst  into  words — were  the  blue  sky  to  speak — what  words 
would  best  translate  its  old  smiling  silence  ?  To  men  bending, 
and  willing  to  bend,  below  its  quiet,  surpassing  grandeur,  what 
sounds  more  cheering  and  cognate  than  were  these — ''  Blessed 
are  the  2'>oor  in  spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  Jcingdoin  of  heaven  V 
These  are  the  first  words  from  the  mount.  The  first  recorded 
word  of  the  Divine  Man  is  a  blessing  ;  and  a  blessing  on  those 
who  feel  their  littleness,  as  the  condition  and  element  of  their 
being,  and  a  blessing  which  fills  the  void  of  the  poor,  humble 
heart  with  Heaven.  Just  as  the  sky  seems  to  whisper — "  Bend, 
but  bend — learn,  only  learn — listen,  but  listen — and  all  mine 
are  thine,  and  with  galaxies  shall  I  crown  thy  lowly  head." 
And  as  the  beatitudes  multiply,  you  feel  more  at  every  sen- 
tence that  they  are  from  the  deep  heart  of  the  universe,  and 
that  this  is  God  interpreting  himself.  Who  but  himself  could 
have  named  that  eye  which  can  alone  to  eternity  see  him — the 
cleansed  and  filial  heart  ?  "  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for 
they  shall  see  GodP 

Demonstrate  a  God  to  the  atheist,  or  the  worldling,  or  the 
sensual !  Alas !  such  persons  never  had,  and  may  never  have, 
a  God,  and  how  can  they  be  conscious  of  him  ?  God  must  either 
be  a  Father,  or  a  fierce,  overwhelming.  Infinite  Thought — a  jus- 
tice and  a  terror — crushing  his  enemies  under  their  oivn  one- 
sided idea  of  him.  But  the  pure  and  warm  heart  feels  the 
Father,  like  a  sweet  scent  in  the  evening  air — like  the  presence 
of  a  friend  in  the  dark  twilight  room — like  a  melody  entering 


POETEY  OF  THE  GOSPELS.  239 

"within  and  sweetening  all  the  soul,  which  has  leaped  half-way 
to  meet  it. 

The  heart  here,  the  Father  yoiider,  and  the  universe  of  man 
and  matter  as  the  meeting-place  between  them,  is  the  whole  scope 
and  the  whole  poetry  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  The  preacher 
shears  off  all  the  superfluities  and  externals  of  worship  and  of 
action,  that  he  may  show,  in  its  naked  simplicity,  the  com- 
munion which  takes  place  between  the  heart  as  worshiper,  and 
God  as  hearer.  The  righteousness  he  inculcates  must  exceed 
that  "  of  the  Scribes  and  the  Pharisees."  The  man  who  hates 
his  brother,  or  calls  him  "  Eaca,"  is  a  murderer  in  seed.  Adul- 
tery first  lurks  and  swelters  in  the  heart.  Oaths  are  but  big 
sounds  ;  the  inner  feelings  are  better  represented  by  "  Yea,  yea, 
nay,  nay."  That  love  which  resides  within  will  walk  through 
the  w^orld  as  men  walk  through  a  gallery  of  pictures,  loving  and 
admiring,  and  expecting  no  return.  The  giving  of  alms  must 
be  secret.  The  sw^eetest  prayer  will  be  solitary  and  short.  One 
must  fast,  too,  as  if  he  fasted  not.  The  enduring  treasures  must 
be  laid  up  within.  Eighteousness  must  be  sought  before,  and 
as  inclusive  of,  all  things ;  life  is  more  precious  than  all  the 
means  of  it.  The  examination  and  correction  of  faults  must  be- 
gin at  home.  Prayer,  if  issuing  from  the  heart,  is  all-powerful. 
The  essence  of  the  law  and  prophets  lies  in  doing  to  others 
as  we  would  have  others  do  to  us.  Having  neglected  the 
inner  Hfe,  the  majority  have  gone  to  ruin,  even  while  following 
fully  and  devotedly  external  forms  of  faith  and  worship.  The 
heart  must,  at  the  same  time,  be  known  by  its  fruits.  It  is  only 
the  good  worker  that  shall  enter  the  heavenly  kingdom.  These 
truths,  in  fine,  acted  upon — those  precepts  from  the  Mount, 
heard  and  done — become  a  rock  of  absolute  safety,  while  all  be- 
sides is  sand  now,  and  sea  hereafter. 

Such  is,  in  substance,  this  sermon.  It  includes  unconsciously 
all  theology  and  all  morals,  and  is  invested,  besides,  with  the 
beauty  of  imagery — theology — for  what  do  we  know,  or  can  we 
ever  know,  of  God,  but  that  he  is  "  our  Father  in  heaven,"  that 
he  accepts  our  heart-worship,  forgives  our  debts,  and  hears  our 


240  POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

earnest  prayers — morals,  for  as  all  sin  lies  in  selfishness,  all  virtue 
lies  in  losing  our  petty  identity  in  the  great  river  of  the  species, 
which  flows  into  the  ocean  of  God ;  and  as  to  imagery,  how  many 
natural  objects — the  salt  of  the  sea,  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  the 
thorns  of  the  wilderness,  the  trees  of  the  field,  the  hairs  of  the  head, 
the  rocks  of  the  mountain,  and  the  sand  of  the  sea-shore — com- 
bine to  explain  and  to  beautify  the  deep  lessons  conveyed !  Here 
is,  verily,  the  model — long  sought  elsewhere  in  vain — of  a  "  per- 
fect sermon,"  which  ought  to  speak  of  God  and  of  man  in  words 
and  figures  borrowed  from  that  beautiful  creation,  which  lies 
between,  which  adumbrates  the  former  to  the  latter,  and  enables 
the  latter  to  glorify  at  once  the  works  and  the  Author.  "  Here 
is  Christianity,"  we  exclaim,  and  remember  with  pleasure  the 
experiences  of  a  gifted  spirit,  who  was  wont,  after  attending 
certain  meetings,  professedly  meant  to  revive  religion,  but  full 
of  degrading  rant  and  vain  contortion,  to  re-assure  his  spirit  in 
its  belief  of  Jesus  by  reading,  himself  alone,  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount. 

Fitly  does  the  Teacher  close  his  sermon  by  the  parable  of  the 
two  men,  the  two  houses,  and  the  two  foundations.  The  two 
great  classes  of  mankind  are  but  too  easily  represented  by  two 
individuals — the  selfish  and  the  spiritual  man — the  one  build- 
ing perhaps  a  palace  on  the  sand,  the  other  perhaps  a  cottage 
on  the  rock,  and  each  receiving  his  appropriate  reward.  The 
palace  (be  it  a  poem,  or  a  victory,  or  a  g^rand  discovery),  if  the 
sand  of  selfishness  be  beneath  it,  sinks  inevitably,  and  men, 
angels,  demons,  and  God,  say  of  it — "  Great  is  its  fall."  The 
cottage  (perhaps  one  humble  heart,  united  by  the  builder  to 
Jesus — perhaps  figured  aptly  by  a  cup  of  cold  water  given  to 
a  discijile,  or  by  a  dying  word,  like  that  of  the  penitent  thief) 
stands  securer  far  than  the  sun,  and  shall  shine  when  he  is 
darkness.  At  the  close  of  this  parable  of  parables,  do  we  not 
see  evil  gone  down,  and  lost  in  the  abyss  ;  while  good  remains 
imperishable  upon  its  rock  of  ages  ? 

The  Sermon  on  the  Mount  represents  faithfully  the  two  prin- 
cipal features  of  Christ's  preaching — its  didactic  basis,  and  the 


POETRY    OF    THE    GOSPELS.  241 

parabolic  beauty  v/bich  sbone  above.  In  it  we  find  tbose  two 
qiiabties  united ;  in  bis  after-discourses  we  find  tbem  more  in 
separation.  In  tbe  Gospel  of  Luke,  for  instance,  we  bave  little 
else  tban  parables  proceeding  from  bis  lips ;  in  Jobn,  bis  didacti- 
cism takes  a  bigber  fligbt  tban  in  Matthew,  and  wears  a  celestial 
luster  upon  her  wings.  In  tbe  Sermon  on  tbe  Mount,  be  bad 
soared  bigb  above  Sinai ;  but  in  tbe  closing  discourses  to  bis 
disciples,  recorded  in  Jobn,  be  leaves  us,  like  tbe  men  of  Galilee, 
"  standing  and  gazing  up  into  beaven."  In  bis  Sei'mon  on  tbe 
Mount,  be  bad  dwelt  cbiefly  upon  tbe  general  relations  of  men 
to  tbe  Father ;  the  discourses  in  John  illustrate  rather  his  own 
special  and  transcendent  connection  with  him. 

Let  us  glance,  first,  at  bis  parables,  which  are  a  poetry  in 
themselves.  Truth,  half  betrayed  in  beauty,  half  shrouded  in 
mystery,  is  the  essence  of  a  parable.  It  is  the  truth  wishing 
to  be  loved,  ere  she  ventures  forth  to  be  worshiped  and  obeyed. 
Tbe  multitude  of  Christ's  parables  is  not  so  wonderful  as  their 
variety,  their  beauty,  their  brevity,  and  the  sweet  or  fearful  pic- 
tures which  they  paint  at  once  and  forever  upon  the  soul. 
Here  we  see  the  good  Samaritan  riding  toward  bis  inn,  with  his 
wounded  brother  before  him.  There,  hngeringly,  doubtingly, 
like  a  truant  boy  at  evening,  returns  the  prodigal  son  to  bis 
father,  whose  arms,  at  his  threshold,  stretched  out,  seem  wish- 
ing for  wings  to  expedite  the  joyous  meeting.  In  that  field 
stalks  tbe  sower,  graver  tban  sowers  are  wont  to  be  in  the  merry 
season  of  spring.  On  tbe  opposite  side,  the  fisherman,  with 
joyful  face,  is  drawing  ashore  bis  heavy-laden  net.  With 
yet  keener  ecstasy  depicted  on  bis  countenance,  you  see  the 
merchantman  lighting  on  a  pearl  of  pearls,  while  across  from 
him  is  tbe  treasure-finder,  with  circumspective  and  fearful  looks, 
biding  bis  precious  prize.  And,  lo  !  bow,  under  tbe  dim  canopy 
of  night,  shadowing  tbe  barely-budding  field  of  wheat,  steals  a 
crooked  and  winged  figure,  trembling  lest  the  very  darkness  see 
liim — the  enemy — scattering  tares  in  huddled  abundance  among 
the  wheat.  The  morning  comes  ;  but,  while  revealing  the  rank 
tares  growing  among  the  good  seed,  it  reveals  also  tbe  large  mus- 

L 


242  POETRY    OF   THE    GOSPELS. 

tard-tree  wliicli  has  shot  up  with  incredible  swiftness,  "  so  that 
the  fowls  of  the  air  do  build  in  the  branches  thereof."  Here  you 
see  a  woman  mixing  leaven  with  her  meal  till  the  whole  lump 
is  leavened  ;  and  there  another  woman,  sweeping  the  room,  how 
fast,  yet  intensely,  for  her  lost  piece  of  silver.  There  the  ser- 
vant of  the  marriage-host  is  compelling  the  wanderers  from  the 
hedges  to  come  in,  his  face  all  glowing  with  amiable  anger  and 
kindly  coercion  ;  and  yonder,  in  the  distance,  with  anxious  eye 
and  crook  in  his  hand,  hies  the  shepherd  into  the  twilight  des- 
ert, in  search  of  his  "  lost  sheep."  And,  hark !  as  the  mar- 
riage-feast has  begun,  and  the  song  of  holy  merriment  is  just 
rising  on  the  evening  air,  there  comes  a  voice,  strangely  con- 
certing with  it,  hollow  as  the  grave — a  whispered  thunder.  It 
is  the  voice  of  Dives,  saying — "  Father  Abraham,  have  mercy 
on  me,  and  send  Lazarus,  that  he  may  dip  the  tip  of  his  finger 
in  water,  and  cool  my  tongue,  for  I  am  tormented  in  this  fiameP 

In  such  figures,  Jesus  has  exhausted  life,  earth,  eternity. 
The  small  seed  from  which  all  greatness  buds  ;  the  supreme 
beauty  of  compassion,  even  when  found  in  foreign  and  unen- 
lightened breasts  ;  the  touch  of  nature,  making  the  whole  world 
kin  ;  the  joy  and  glory  connected  with  the  recovery  of  the  lost ; 
the  unseen  but  awfully  real  agency  of  evil  counteracting  good 
in  this  present  world  ;  the  all-embracing  and  pains-taking  love 
of  the  Great  Host  and  Father ;  the  fact  that  men  must  some- 
times be  driven  to  their  own  happiness ;  the  dignity  and  value 
of  a  lost  soul,  or  a  lost  world  ;  the  feelings  connected  with 
finding  a  truth,  and  wrapping  it  up  as  too  precious  or  bright  for 
the  present  time ;  the  yearning  of  the  Father  over  his  vagrant 
children,  and  his  joy  at  their  return;  the  reception  the  Savior 
was  to  receive  when  he  came  to  save  the  lost ;  the  leap  by  which 
the  laws  of  earth  pass  into  the  unseen  world ;  the  sympathies  of 
the  departed  with  living  men ;  and  the  sufficiency  and  soleness 
of  the  means  God  has  appointed ; — such  are  the  fancy-wrought 
and  fire-written  lessons  of  the  parables  of  Jesus  Christ. 

The  marriage  of  the  highest  truth  and  human  interest  was 
never  so  fully  celebrated  as  here.    Hence,  while  divines  find 


POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS.  243 

those  parables  to  sink  into  a  profundity  into  which  they  can 
Dot  follow,  children  hang  them  up,  like  pictures,  in  their  fancies 
and  hearts.  From  them,  too,  has  sprung  an  entire  literature, 
including  some  of  the  master-pieces  of  modern  genius.  Dante's 
"  Divina  Comedia,"  Spenser's  "  Faery  Queen,"  and  Bunyan's 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  are  the  long-reverberated  and  eloquent 
echoes  of  the  wayside  words  of  the  Divine  Carpenter  of  Naza- 
reth. 

"  Divine,"  indeed !  for  if  any  man  doubt  his  claim  to  the 
title,  let  him  pass  from  Christ's  pictures  of  earth  to  his  aspira- 
tions after  heaven  ;  let  him  hear  the  musical  pants  of  this  great 
swimmer,  as  he  is  nearing,  amid  roughest  water,  the  shores  of 
eternity  and  his  Father's  bosom.  The  last  words  of  Jesus  are 
surcharged  with  feeling  for  his  disciples,  forgiveness  to  his  ene- 
mies, and  desire  after  renewed  communion  with  his  Father. 
His  soul  springs  up,  as  he  sees  his  Father's  throne  in  view. 
Death  dwindles  as  he  looks  onward.  A  smile  of  triumph  rests, 
as  by  anticipation,  upon  his  lips.  "  Be  of  good  cheer  :  I  have 
overcome  the  world."  His  last  command  is,  "  that  ye  love  one 
another;"  his  last  legacy  is  "peace."  He  is  going  to  the 
Father,  but  leaving  the  Comforter,  and  promising  to  return 
again ;  and,  ere  going,  he  breaks  out  into  a  prayer  which,  ere 
it  closes,  seems  to  bind  in  one  chain  of  glory  earth  and  heaven, 
himself,  his  Father,  and  his  people  :  "  The  glory  which  thou 
gavest  me  I  have  given  them ;  that  they  may  be  one,  even  as 
we  are  one.  Father,  I  will  that  they  also  whom  thou  hast 
given  me  be  with  me  where  I  am ;  that  they  may  behold  my 
glory."  This  prayer  seems  a  specimen  of  his  intercessory 
prayers  in  heaven.  It  is  the  f.rst  lifting  up  of  that  solemn  voice 
which  sweetens  the  air  of  Paradise — the  first  raising  of  those 
arms  which  brighten  the  very  light  which  is  inaccessible  and 
full  of  glory. 

In  considering  those  words,  we  are  strongly  impressed  with 
the  feeling — this  is  the  conscious  link  of  the  spiritual  world — 
the  living  bond  between  the  Father  and  his  children.  The 
Father  can  never  on  earth  come  nearer  us  than  him  ;  we  can 


244  POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

never  get  nearer  than  him  to  the  Father.  We  know  not 
what  the  eternal  ages  may  develop,  or  how  that  mysterious 
sentence,  "Then  shall  the  Son  of  Man  also  himself  be  sub- 
ject unto  him,  that  God  may  be  All  in  All,"  may  bear  upon 
his  future  mediation ;  but  surely  now  he  stands  between  us  and 
the  beams  of  divine  day,  like  an  "Angel  in  the  sun."  There 
is  no  getting  him  out  of  the  eye  of  the  world.  The  poor  sin- 
ner looks  at  him,  and  mourns,  yet  rejoices.  The  proud  trans- 
gressor hates  and  foams,  but  can  not  help  looking  at,  and  think- 
ing of,  Christ.  The  infidel,  feeling  him  in  his  way,  invents 
theory  after  theory,  each  trampling  down  each,  to  resolve  him 
into  clay  or  into  mist ;  but  still  he  stands  victorious  and  serene 
above  them  all,  inscrutable  as  an  enigma,  vast  as  a  God,  and 
warm  as  a  man.  The  fierce  theoretical  dogmatist  would  seek  to 
turn  aside  that  smile,  and  fix  it  on  the  pages  of  his  catechism 
and  the  men  of  his  creed  ;  but,  like  summer  sunlight,  it  scatters 
abroad  and  "  sprinkles  many  nations."  Many  look  down,  and 
strive  to  forget  him ;  some  try  to  look  above  him,  into  super- 
solar  regions  ;  but  in  vain.  His  image  pursues  them  into  the 
depths,  or  flies  before  them  into  the  heights  of  nature.  In  this 
age,  only  a  few,  even  among  those  who  disbelieve  his  claims, 
yell  out  faded  blasphemies  and  foul  calumnies  against  his  name. 
More  now  of  all  kindreds  and  climes  are  beginning  to  wish  this 
Angel  to  descend,  and  are  expecting  from  him — and  from  him 
alone — the  full  solution  of  the  dread  mystery  of  man  and  the 
world. 

For  why  ?  He  only  understands  it.  He  has  passed  up  every 
step  of  the  ladder,  from  the  child  to  the  God,  from  the  manger 
to  the  throne.  He  has  felt  the  pulse  of  all  being.  He  listened 
to  the  hearts  of  harlots  and  of  publicans,  and  heard  humanity 
boating  even  there.  He  looked  into  the  dim  eyes  of  the  poor, 
and  saw  therein  the  image  of  God.  Even  in  devils  he  found 
out  all  that  was  left  of  good  in  their  natures,  when  they  con- 
fessed him  to  be  the  Son  of  God.  While  the  long  hair  of  the 
prostitute  wiped  his  feet,  which  her  tears  had  watered,  the  eye 
of  the  lunatic  tarried,  at  his  bidding,  from  its  wild  wanderings, 


POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS.  245 

and  began  to  roll  calmly  around  him.  Herod  became  grave  in 
his  presence,  Pilate  washed  his  hands  from  the  shadow  of  his 
blood,  Peter  w^ept  at  his  look,  and  Judas  died  at  his  recollection. 
Angels  ministered  to  him,  or  sung  his  praise ;  the  grave  was 
ashamed  of  hiding  his  dust ;  earth  threw  his  ransomed  body  up 
to  heaven  ;  and  heaven  sent  forth  all  its  guards,  and  opened  all 
its  gates,  to  receive  hira  into  its  bosom,  where  it  shall  retain 
him  till  the  times  of  the  restitution  of  all  things. 

Thus  faintly  have  we  sought  to  depict  the  character  and  elo- 
quence of  Jesus.  Scripture  writers  did  not,  nor  needed  to  do  it. 
They  never  say,  in  so  many  words,  Christ  was  very  eloquent, 
very  wise,  very  humble,  very  merciful,  or  very  holy.  But  they 
record  his  Sermon  on  the  Mount ;  they  show  him  taking  the 
Pharisees  in  their  own  snare  ;  they  register  his  tears  at  the  tomb 
of  Lazarus;  they  paint  the  confusion  of  the  witnesses,  who 
came,  but  could  not  bear  testimony  against  him  ;  and  they  tell 
of  his  washing  his  disciples'  feet.  We  have,  alas  !  no  new  facts 
to  record  of  him  ;  and  must  say  of  that  hfe  so  marvelous,  yet 
humane,  "  It  is  finished."  But  even  as  the  most  splendid  ob- 
ject in  the  sky  is  perpetually  painted,  yet  always  new,  as  the 
sun  is  unceasingly  rendered  back  by  the  wave  of  ocean,  the 
dew-drop,  and  the  eye  of  man,  so  let  it  be  with  the  Sun  of 
Righteousness.  Let  his  blessed  image  be  reflected  from  page 
to  page,  each  catching  more  fully  than  another  some  aspect  of 
his  glory,  till  he  shall  himself  stand  before  the  trembling  mirror 
of  the  earth,  "  as  he  is,"  and  till  "  every  eye  shall  see  him." 
Then,  probably,  it  may  be  found  that  all  the  proud  portraits 
which  the  genius  of  Taylor,  and  Harris,  and  Rousseau,  and 
Goethe,  has  drawn  of  him,  are  not  comparable  with  that  cher- 
ished likeness  of  his  face  and  nature  which  lies  in  the  bosom  of 
the  lowly  Christian,  like  a  star  in  a  deep-sunken  well,  the  more 
glorious  that  it  is  solitary  and  seldom  seen,  forever  trembhng, 
but  never  passing  away. 

Note. — Since  -writing  this  chapter,  we  have  read  Dr.  Channing's  Life. 
We  find  in  one  of  his  letters  two  of  our  thoughts  anticipated ;  one,  that 
of  Christ's  unconsciousness  in  working  his  miracles,  and  another,  his  su- 


246  POETRY  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

j>eriority  to  them.  He  says,  "  Miracle  sorting  was  to  him  nothing, 
compared  with  moral  energy."  And  this,  he  says,  produced  his  uncon- 
sciousness. "We  rather  think  that  that  was  the  result  of  the  miraculous 
force  stored  up  in  him,  and  which,  in  certain  circxmistances,  as  when  it 
met  with  strong  faith,  came  forth  freely  and  irresistibly,  as  water  to 
the  diviner's  rod,  or  perspiration  to  the  noonday  sun.  But  it  was  not 
because  it  came  out  so  spontaneously  that  Christ  rated  it  low,  but  be- 
cause its  effects  were  the  mere  scaffolding  to  his  ulterior  purpose.  We 
advise  every  one  to  read  the  last  thirty  pages  of  the  second  volume  of 
Channing's  Life.  They  constitute  the  finest  apology  for  the  reality  of 
Christ  we  ever  read,  and  show  deep  insight  into  his  nature.  They 
show  that  Hall's  definition  of  Unitarianism — that  its  whole  secret  con- 
sists in  thinking  meanly  of  Christ — did  not  at  least  apply  to  Channing. 


CHAPTER    XI  y. 

PAUL. 

It  was  asked  of  old  time,  "  Is  Saul  also  among  the  prophets  ?" 
it  may  be  asked  now,  is  Paul  also  among  the  poets  ?  Wonder- 
ful as  this  is,  it  is  no  less  certain.  A  poet  of  the  first  order 
Paul  was,  if  force  of  thought,  strength  of  feeling,  power  of  ima- 
gination (without  an  atom  of  fency),  heaving  ardor  of  eloquence, 
and  energy  of  language,  go  to  constitute  a  poet. 

The  degree  in  which  Paul  possesses  the  logical  faculty,  the 
extreme  vigor  and  keenness  of  his  understanding,  have  blinded 
many  to  the  power  of  his  genius,  just  as,  on  the  contrary,  with 
many  writers,  the  luxuriance  and  splendor  of  their  imagina- 
tion have  vailed  from  common  critical  view  the  subtilty  and 
strength  of  their  insight.  In  the  one  case,  the  eye  of  the  cherub 
is  so  piercing,  that  we  never  look  up  to  the  wings  ;  in  the  other, 
the  wings  are  so  vast  and  overshadowing,  that  they  conceal 
from  us  the  eye.  The  want  of  fancy,  besides,  which  we  have 
indicated,  and  the  severe  restraint  in  which  he  usually  holds  his 
imagination,  till  his  intellectual  processes  are  complete,  have 
aided  the  general  impression  that  Paul,  though  acute  always, 
and  often  eloquent,  is  never  poetical.  Whereas,  in  fact,  his 
logic  is  but  the  buckler  on  his  arm,  behind  which  you  see  the 
ardent  eyes  and  the  glittering  breastplate  of  a  poet- hero,  worthy 
of  mingling  with  the  highest  chivalry  of  ancient  song,  with 
Isaiah  and  Ezekiel,  with  Habakkuk  and  with  Joel.  It  was  a 
poet's  eye,  although  glaring  and  bloodshot,  that  witnessed  the 
first  martyrdom — a  poet's  eye  that  was  smote  into  blindness  on 
the  way  to  Damascus — that  looked  from  Mars  Hill,  over  that 


248  PAUL. 

transcendent'landscape  and  motley  audience — and  that,  caught 
up  to  Paradise,  saw  the  visions  of  God,  and,  according  to  some, 
was  ever  afterward  weakened  by  the  blaze.  He  nearly  fulfilled 
to  the  letter  the  words  since  figuratively  apphed  to  Milton,  who 


"  Passed  the  bounds  of  flaming  space, 
Where  angels  tremble  as  they  gaz9, 
Who  saw,  and  blasted  by  the  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night." 


In  Paul,  first,  we  find  art  arrested  and  pressed  into  the  service 
of  Christianity — a  conscious  and  cultured  intellect  devoting  it- 
self to  plead  the  cause  of  heaven — the  genius  of  the  East,  united 
•with  the  acuteness  and  consecutive  thought  which  distinguish 
the  European  mind.  The  utterances  of  the  old  prophets,  of 
Jesus  too,  and  of  John,  are  artless  as  the  words  of  a  child. 
Even  the  loftiest  and  longest  raptures  of  Isaiah  are  as  destitute 
oi  junctura  as  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon ;  the  difierence  only  is, 
that  while  Solomon  walks  calmly  from  stepping-stone  to  step- 
ping-stone, Isaiah  leaps  from  rock  to  rock,  and  peak  to  peak.  The 
words  of  Jesus,  when  mild,  come  forth  disconnected  as  a  stream 
of  smiles — when  terrible,  are  successive,  but  separate,  flashes  of 
forked  lightning.  Paul  alone,  of  Scripture  writers,  aims  at 
composition  in  his  system,  his  description,  and  his  style.  His 
system  is  a  dark  but  rounded  orb ;  in  description,  he  essays  to 
group  objects  together ;  and  the  style  of  the  chief  part  of  his 
principal  Epistles  is  an  intertangled  chain.  We  might  conceive 
that  meeting  on  the  Damascene  way  to  typify  the  contrast  be- 
tween intuition  and  analysis — the  divine  Intuitionist  looking 
down  from  above — the  baffled  but  mighty  analyst  falling  like  a 
dead  man  at  his  feet,  to  rise,  however,  and  to  unite  in  himself 
a  large  portion  of  both  powers,  to  blend  the  learning  and  logic 
of  Gamaliel  the  schoolmaster,  with  the  light  streaming  from  the 
face  of  Jesus,  the  child. 

Here  we  see  how  exquisitely  wise  was  the  selection  of  Paul, 
at  that  point  of  the  history  of  the  new  religion,  to  become  its 


PAUL.  249 

ambassador  to  the  West.  The  first  enthusiasm  of  its  youth  was 
fading,  and  the  power  of  the  first  impulse  from  on  high  had  ne- 
cessarily, in  some  measure,  spent  itself.  The  miraculous  glory 
surrounding  its  head  was  destined  gradually  to  decay.  That  it 
might,  nevertheless,  continue  to  live  and  spread — that  it  might 
j^ass  in  its  power  into  the  midst  of  those  cultivated  countries, 
where  it  was  sure  at  every  step  to  be  challenged,  it  must  as- 
sume an  elaborate  shape,  and  find  a  learned  advocate.  A  Paul 
was  needed ;  and  a  Paul  was  found,  nay,  enlisted  into  the  ser- 
vice, not  by  any  subaltern  officer,  but  by  the  Great  Captain 
himself.  There  is  no  evidence  that  he  was  deeply  read  in 
Grecian  lore — had  he  been  so,  we  should  have  had  thirty  in- 
stead of  three  quotations  from  the  Pagan  poets  ;  nor  that  he  was 
ever  trained  to  the  study  of  the  Grecian  dialects ;  but  his  in- 
tellect, naturally  acute  to  subtilty,  was  subjected  to  the  some- 
what severely  intellectual  processes  which  then  abounded  in  the 
Jewish  schools  ;  and  he  was  thus  qualified  to  reason  and  wind  a 
way  for  Christianity,  where  the  force  of  miracle,  or  the  instant 
lightning  of  intuitive  feehng,  were  not  at  hand  to  cut  and  cleave 
it.  The  religion  of  Jesus  passed  through  the  East  like  a  ray 
through  an  unrefracting  medium  ;  when  it  came  westward,  it 
found  an  atmosphere  to  be  penetrated,  and  a  Pauline  power  to 
penetrate  it  by  bending,  yet  remaining  pure  as  a  sunbeam. 

"When  Paul  arose,  Christianity  was  in  a  state  of  disarray. 
The  manna  was  fallen  from  heaven,  and  lay  white  on  the 
ground,  but  was  not  gathered  nor  condensed.  Had  it  been  de- 
signed for  a  ])artial  or  temporary  purpose,  this  had  been  com- 
paratively of  httle  importance.  But,  as  it  was  meant  to  tarry 
till  the  master  should  come,  it  was  necessary  that  it  should  as- 
sume a  shape  so  symmetrical,  and  a  consistence  so  great,  that 
no  sun  of  civilization  or  keen  inquiry  could  melt  it.  For  this 
purpose,  Paul  was  stopped,  and  struck  down,  and  blinded,  and 
raised  up,  and  cured,  and  taken  like  his  master  into  the  wilder- 
ness (of  Arabia),  and  brought  back,  and  commissioned,  and 
preserved,  and  sent  to  Athens  and  to  Rome,  and  inspired  with 
those  dark  yet  wondrous  Epistles  of  his — parts  of  which  seem 


260  PAUL. 

to  preserve  certain  great  lialf-utterable  trutlis  m  frost,  till  the 
final  spring  shall  come. 

Some  even  of  Paul's  friends  have  regretted  the  analytical 
cast  which  the  intuitional  religion  of  the  "  Carpenter"  took  from 
his  hands,  and  have  said,  "  not  Paul,  but  Jesus."  There  are 
several  reasons  why  we  can  not  concur  with  them  in  this.  First, 
The  intuitional  element  was  not  lost,  it  was  only  exhibited  in 
another  form :  the  manna  was  that  which  had  fallen  from 
heaven  ;  it  was  only  formed  into  cakes  by  a  master  hand. 
Secondly,  Intuitional  impression  can  never  circulate  widely  nor 
long,  unless  it  thus  be  condensed ;  bullion  is  sluggish — money 
goes  ;  heaps  of  manna  sometimes  stank — the  small  cakes  re- 
freshed and  revived  the  eaters.  Even  Christ's  words  required 
Paul's  emphasis  and  accentuation.  Thirdly,  All  genuine  in- 
tuition and  inspiration  seek,  and  at  last  find,  an  artistic  or  sys- 
tematic expression.  Nature  herself  struggles  after  unity,  and 
after  completeness  of  beauty.  Every  flower  seems  arrested  on 
its  way  to  higher  elegance  and  more  ethereal  hues.  Every  tree 
seems  stretching  out  its  branches  in  quest  of  some  yet  rounder 
termination.  So  with  thought  of  all  varieties  of  excellence  and 
of  truth.  The  severely  logical  desires  a  vesture  of  beauty.  The 
beautifully  imaginative  desires  a  clothing  of  cla}^  Not  always 
is  either  appetency  granted.  But  no  religion,  at  least,  can 
have  a  permanent  place  and  power  in  the  world,  unless  it  ap- 
peal alike  to  the  ideal  and  the  artistic,  display  the  eternal  spirit, 
and  assume  the  earthly  shape.  To  Christianity,  Jesus  supplied 
the  one,  and  Paul  the  other.  Fourthly,  Such  a  descent,  as  it 
may  be  called,  from  Jesus  the  child,  to  Paul  the  logician,  was 
necessary,  both  as  an  interpretation  of  that  part  of  Christianity 
which  was  destined  to  endure,  and  as  a  substitute  for  that  part 
of  it  doomed  to  weaken  and  wane.  Christianity,  the  spiritual 
power,  was  to  remain ;  but  Christianity,  the  miraculous  force, 
was  to  decline.  Paul's  system  was  1»  contain  the  essence  of 
the  one,  and  to  conserve  so  much  as  was  conservable  of  the  rel- 
ict influence  of  the  other.  Fifthly,  As  in  part  remarked  be- 
fore, it  was  of  importance  to  Christianity  that  it  should  triumph 


PAUL.  251 

over  a  man  of  culture.  Simple  fishermen  it  had  in  plenty  ;  but 
it  needed  to  show  how  it  could  subdue  an  intellectual  and  edu- 
cated man ;  how  it  should,  in  the  process,  reconcile  the  warring 
elements  in  his  nature,  and  bring  to  him  what  no  study  could 
ever  bring— peace  amid  his  majestic  powers.  In  other  words, 
the  intellectual  progress  of  the  age  and  the  new  religion  must 
be  reconciled,  and  they  were  reconciled  accordingly  ;  not  merely 
in  a  coni'pact  and  complete  theory^  but  in  a  living  man — and  that 
man  was  Paul.  This,  too,  is  the  great  j^robleni  of  the  present 
time.  To  have  our  mental  progress  reconciled  with  Christianity, 
not  only  by  such  an  elaborate  system  as  Coleridge  died  in 
building,  but  also  by  a  hving  synthesis — a  breathing  bridge — 
the  new  Chalmers  of  the  new  time,  forming  in  himself  the 
herald  of  the  mightier  one,  whose  sandals  even  he  shall  be  un- 
worthy to  unloose  :  this  is  what  the  wiser  of  Christians,  and 
the  more  devout  of  philosophers,  are  at  present  longing  and 
panting  to  see. 

Of  such  a  man,  who  shall  lay  the  ground-plan  ?  We  can 
not  describe  him  into  existence.  Yet  we  rnay  state  certain 
quahties  which  the  Paul  of  the  present  must  possess,  as  the 
Paul  of  a  former  day  did.  He  must  be  a  converted  man. 
That  is,  he  must  have  seen,  in  a  blaze  of  blinding  light, 
the  vanity  and  evil,  the  folly  and  madness,  of  the  worldly 
or  selfish,  and  the  grandeur  and  truth  of  the  disinterested 
and  Christian  life.  He  must,  in  a  glare  of  illumination,  have 
beheld  himself,  with  all  his  faculties  and  accomplishments, 
as  but  a  garlanded  victim,  to  be  sacrificed  for  man  and  to 
God.  This  Paul  learned  on  the  way  to  Damascus,  and  he 
acted  ever  afterward  on  the  lesson.  He  must  be,  again,  a  man 
who' has  gifts  and  accomplishments  to  sacrifice.  He  must  be 
able  to  meet  age  on  its  ov^^n  terms,  and  to  talk  to  it  in  its  own 
dialect.  He  must  speak  from  between  a  double  peak,  from  the 
height  of  a  commanding  intellect,  and  from  that  of  a  lofty  mis- 
sion. He  must  render  it  impossible  for  any  one  to  look  down 
upon  him.  The  king  himself  may  be,  as  we  have  called  him, 
a  divine  and  eternal  child  ;  but  the  embassador  and  herald  must 


252  PAUL. 

be,  like  Paul,  a  furnished  man.  He  must,  again,  have  under- 
gone great  struggles,  been  made  perfect  through  suffering — 
perhaps  fallen  into  many  and  grievous  sins.  He  may  have 
been  years  without  hope,  and  without  God,  in  the  world.  He 
may  have  entertained  fierce,  impure,  and  wasting  passions, 
comparable  to  that  rage  which  filled  the  heart  of  Saul  of  Tarsus. 
He  may,  unlike  Saul,  have  sacrificed  the  letter  as  well  as  the 
spirit  of  the  law.  All  these  are  only  inverted  qualifications  for 
his  great  office.  They  prove  him  human — they  evince  expe- 
rience— they  secure  in  him,  and  for  him,  widest  sympathies, 
and  show  him  to  possess  a  fellow-feeling  with  our  infirmities. 
"We  find,  again,  that  the  Paul  of  the  past  had  a  deep  interest 
and  love  for  his  unbelieving  brethren.  They  were  counted  as 
brethren,  though  they  were  unbelievers.  He  had  been  an  un- 
believer himself,  and  had  been  saved  from  unbelief  by  a  special 
and  marvelous  interference.  But  there  remained  in  him  still 
a  compassion  for  his  brethren  that  were  without.  "  Therefore," 
he  says,  "  he  nad  great  heaviness  and  continual  sorrow  in  his 
heart."  The  Paul  of  the  present  should  have  his  heart  dis- 
tended by  a  similar  emotion.  We  say  not  that  he  should  have 
ever  crossed  the  boundaries  of  unbelief,  but  he  should  have 
neared  them.  Unless  he  has  neared  them,  in  this  distracted 
time,  it  is  clear  that  he  has  never  thought  at  all.  And  although 
we  could  accept  an  angel  who  had  only  seen,  we  can  not  accept 
an  apostle  unless  he  has  reflected,  reasoned,  doubted,  and  then 
believed.  And  the  man  who  has  ever  had  deep  and  sincere 
doubt,  will  always  afterward  regard  it  with  interest  and  sym- 
pathy, as  the  tomb  of  his  now  risen  and  renewed  being,  and 
extend  the  sympathy  to  those  who  are  still  inclosed.  A  Paul 
disbelieved  once,  and  pitied  unbelief  ever  afterward.  A  Cole- 
ridge doubted  once,  and  became  the  spiritual  father  of  many 
bewildered  doubters.  A  Hall  was  once  a  materialist,  and 
buried  (gravely  and  reverently)  materialism  in  his  father's 
grave.  An  Arnold  fought  for  years  with  doubts,  and  his  last 
words  were  the  words  of  Christ  to  doubting  Thomas.  The 
thinker  of  the  new  era  must,  probably,  have   gained   truth 


PAUL.  253 

through  yet  darker  avenues  than  theirs,  and  be  able  almost  to 
bless  them,  because  they  led  to  a  fuller  and  brighter  day. 
The  Paul  of  the  past  united  reverence  for  the  extant  record 
with  a  keen  perception  of  the  wants  of  the  new  era,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  new  dispensation.  Like  Jesus,  he  said,  "  It  hath 
been  said  unto  you  by  them  of  old  time  ;"  and  then  proceeded 
to  express  the  old  watchwords  in  the  tones  and  the  spirit  of  his 
own  time.  So  must  the  Paul  of  the  present.  He  must  study 
philosophy,  gaze  on  nature,  and  wait  the  descending  inspiration, 
leaning  the  while  over  the  page  of  the  New  Testament.  Many, 
ignoring  this  as  either  never  having  been  true,  or  as  having  be- 
come false  (as  if  any  truth  could  ever  become  a  falsehood,  any 
more  than  a  he  a  truth),  are  wasting  their  voice,  like  BaaFs 
prophets,  in  crying  to  deaf  elements,  and  a  sleeping  Pantheistic 
God.  Others  are  going  about  our  streets,  like  well-meaning 
but  beslept  watchmen,  calling  the  hours  of  midnight,  while  the 
morning  is  paling  their  lanterns.  Our  Paul,  while  loving'  the 
"  pale  light  of  stars,"  must  feel  and  announce  the  dawning  of  the 
day.  Finally,  the  Paul  of  the  present,  thus  endowed,  thus 
educated,  and  thus  impressed,  must  address  himself,  as  did  the 
Paul  of  old,  to  form  a  version  or  system  of  Christianity,  which 
may  be  reconciled,  or  at  least  appear  reconcilable,  to  science 
and  philosophy.  He  must  elaborate  from  the  Scriptures  a  mir- 
ror in  which  the  great  twofold  Cosmos  of  matter  and  mind 
shall  be  seen  "  as  it  is."  He  must  proclaim  the  approaching 
nuptials  of  spiritual  beauty  and  philosophic  truth.  And  with- 
out daring  to  prognosticate  the  entire  course  of  thought  which 
shall  form  the  reconciling  medium,  we  may  express  our  notion 
of  certain  conditions  which  it  must  premise.  First,  In  at- 
tempting such  a  synthesis,  much  which  clings  to,  without 
being,  Christianity  must  be  sacrificed  or  ignored  by  the  Chris- 
tian thinker.  He  must  give  up  party  bias,  narrow  views,  the 
inordinate  esteem  of  creeds,  the  overbearing  influence  of  tradi- 
tion, bibliolatry,  or  worship  of  that  "  letter  which  killeth," 
and  all  those  views  of  doctrine. which  prove  themselves  false, 
by  being  opposed  to  the  instincts  and  intuitions,  alike  of  cul- 


254  PAUL. 

tured  and  uncultured  man — alike  of  peasant,  analytic  philos- 
opher, and  inspired  poet.  He  must,  too,  for  reasons  good 
and  sufficient,  lay  less  stress  on  miracles  as  proofs  than  many 
do,  but  every  thing  on  them  as  pledges  which  Christ  is  to  re- 
deem, and  as  specimens  of  his  future  supernatural  interference. 
Secondly,  He  must  take  his  firm  stand  upon  the  Book^  believ- 
ing it,  as  he  believes  the  sun,  on  account  of  its  superiority,  its 
unwaning  splendor,  its  power,  its  adaptation  to  man's  present 
nature,  intellect,  and  wants — an  adaptation,  like  that  of  light, 
ever  fixed,  yet  ever  fluctuating,  its  simj^licity,  unity,  and  depth 
— because  it  is  the  record  of  man's  deepest  intuitions  and  earliest 
beliefs — because  it  is  the  best  manual  we  have  of  genuine  mo- 
rality and  devotion,  and  because  its  insight  mounts  ever  and 
anon  to  prophetic  inspiration,  and  to  preternatural  knowledge 
alike  of  the  past  and  the  future,  and  because,  therefore,  it  can 
only  go  down  or  perish  with  the  present  system  of  things.  At 
the  same  time,  he  will  grant  that  the  book  is  not  perfect,  nor 
ultimate,  nor  complete.  Enough,  that  it  fills  its  sphere  and 
illuminates  its  cycle,  till  a  brighter  luminary  shall  dawn. 
Thirdly,  He  must  mark  strongly  the  many  points  of  connec- 
tion between  God's  two  revelations,  while  granting  the  striking 
diversities.  Admittino-  that  there  is  a  e'reater  streno-th  and 
quantity  of  evidence  for  God's  works  in  nature,  than  for  the 
Scriptures—that  the  Bible  can  not  be  equaled  in  point  of  vast- 
ness  and  variety  to  the  universe — that  both  are  surrounded 
with  deep  difficulty  and  darkness — that  the  superiority  of 
the  Bible  lies  principally  in  the  hope  and  aspiration  it  en- 
kindles as  to  future  discoveries,  as  well  as  in  the  present  peace 
its  doctrine  of  atonement  communicates  to  the  conscience ; 
— he  will  see  that  both  are  mediatory  in  their  character — that 
neither  is  final — that  the  difficulties  of  both  spring  from  this 
imperfection  of  attitude — that  both  are  transient — that  to  love, 
or  know,  or  believe  either  aright,  a  certain  moral  discipline  is 
necessary — that,  except  one  become  as  a  little  child,  he  can  in 
no  wise  enter  either  into  the  kingdom  of  nature  or  into  the  king- 
dom of  heaven — and  that  both,  springing  from  the  same  author, 


PAUL.  255 

regulating  the  one  the  intellect,  and  the  other  the  conscience 
of  men,  meditating  in  divers  ways  between  man  and  the  Infinite, 
must  sooner  or  later  form  a  conjunction.  So  long  as  the  philos- 
opher holds  nature  to  be  an  ultimate  fact — to  be,  in  other  words, 
God — he  can  never  believe  in  the  Bible,  nor  in  the  Bible's  God. 
So  long  as  the  Christian  believes  the  Bible  to  be  aught  else  than 
a  tent  in  which  the  Everlasting  tabernacles  for  a  night,  he  can 
never  understand  or  love  the  universe  or  its  Creator.  Grant  that 
both  are  embassadors,  destined  to  retire  before  their  King,  and 
it  becomes  plain  that  their  difficulties  and  their  opposition  to 
each  other  must  also  disappear.  Fourthly,  He  must  inculcate 
the  necessity  of  great  concessions  on  both  sides,  ere  there  can 
be  even  an  approach  to  a  union.  The  philosopher  must  con- 
cede that  Christianity  is  a  fact,  not  a  fable — a  living  power,  not 
a  dead  imposture— that  it  arose  and  spread  in  the  world  so  sud- 
denly and  irresistibly,  as  to  imply  a  divine  impulse — that  its 
pecuHar  sway  over  the  moral  nature  is  as  incontestable  as  that 
of  the  moon  over  the  tides — that  the  belief  in  its  supernatural 
claims  is  still  extant  among  many  of  the  most  cultured  and  in- 
tellectual of  men — and  that,  whatever  he  may  think  of  its  ex- 
ternal evidences,  it  is  the  one  most  beneficial  emanation  from 
God  that  ever  shone  on  earth.  The  Christian,  besides  those 
earthly  incrustations  around  the  virgin  gold  of  his  faith,  which 
we  have  said  he  must  remove,  should  be  prepared  to  admit  that 
science  and  philosophy  are  valuable  and  beautiful  in  themselves 
— that  they  are  true,  so  fer  as  they  go — that  their  truth  is  in- 
dependent of  Scripture,  and  must  stand  or  fall  by  its  own  evi- 
dence— that  their  real  tendency  is  good — and  that,  hke  religion, 
they  are  "  sprung  from  heaven."  AYhen  such  concessions,  and 
others,  are  mutually  made,  and  when,  moreover,  a  spirit  of  for- 
bearance and  charity  is  interfused,  the  ground  of  difference  will 
be  marvelously  narrowed,  and  the  bans  of  the  great  bridal 
shall  be  published.  Teach  men  to  love,  and  they  will  understand. 
Once  the  Christian  learns  to  love,  instead  of  fearing,  he  will 
accept  philosophy.  Once  the  philosopher  is  taught  to  love,  in- 
stead of  hating  Christianity,  he  will  cease  to  consider  its  loftiest 


256  PAUL. 

pretensions  as  absurd,  and  its  profonndest  mysteries  as  formi- 
dable. Finally,  The  Reconciler  must  look  forward  for  the  full 
accomplishment  of  the  work  to  the  interference  of  supernatural 
power.  lie  may  publish  the  bans  ;  another  shall  celebrate 
the  full  marriage.  At  this  hope,  false  philosophy  may  writhe 
its  withered  lips  in  scorn  ;  the  true  will  remember,  that  there 
have  been  separate  creations  innumerable,  implying  distinct 
interferences  of  God,  in  the  ages  of  geology ;  and  why  should 
there  not  be  another  to  make  man  again  upright — to  rear  up  the 
ruins  of  his  brain,  and  the  deeper  ruins  of  his  heart,  into  a 
shapely  whole — to  silence  the  jarring  voices  of  this  unsettled 
age  by  the  musical  thunder  of  a  new  w^ord  from  heaven — to 
sup23lant  usurped,  feeble,  or  tyrannical  authority,  by  a  solitary 
throne,  the  "  stone  cut  out  of  the  mountain  without  hands" — 
and  to  melt  down  philosophy  and  faith  into  the  one  blaze  of 
vision  ?  ISTot  till  then  shall  men  see  the  full  spectacle  of  the 
magnificent  apjMrition  of  the  universe,  with  Christianity,  like 
a  divine  halo,  surrounding  its  head. 

Too  far  have  we  perhaps  been  tempted  to  stray,  in  search  of 
the  Paul  of  the  present,  from  the  Paul  of  the  past.  We  return 
to  him,  for  the  purpose  of  depicting  a  few  more  of  the  many 
powers  and  peculiarities  which  distinguished  his  multiform  na- 
ture. The  man  demands  a  more  particular  survey,  ere  wo 
come  to  the  characteristics  of  the  Author.  And  let  us  mark 
the  kindliness  of  that  heart  which  lay  below  the  sunlike  splen- 
dor of  his  genius.  This  is  WTitten  in  his  letter  to  Philemon  ; 
it  hves  in  his  interview  with  the  elders  of  Ephesus,  and  breaks 
out  irrepressibly  in  many  parts  of  his  Epistles.  It  adds  gi-ace 
to  his  grandeur,  and  makes  his  doctrines  alike  divine  and  hu- 
mane. The  power  of  a  demigod  is  hardly  more  amiable  than 
that  of  a  demon,  unless  it  be  softened  by  touches  of  nature, 
and  mellowed  by  the  air  of  earth.  A  Paul  too  proud  for  tears 
had  never  turned  the  world  upside  down.  But  to  "  such  an  one 
as  Paul  the  aged"  asking  such  a  question  as  "  What  mean  ye 
to  weep  and  to  break  mine  heart  V  and  wishing  himself  ac- 
cursed for  the  sake  of  his  unbelieving  brethren,  all  hearts  but 


PAUL.  257 

the  hardest  are  ready  to  capitulate.  Paul's  tears  effected  what 
his  thunders,  his  learning,  and  his  logic  would  not  so  quickly 
have  done.  Great  as  the  difference  between  man  and  man,  is  that 
between  tear  and  tear.  The  tears  of  Isaiah  must  have  been 
fiery  and  rainbow-beaming  as  his  genius ;  David's  must  have 
been  mingled  with  blood ;  Jeremiah's  must  have  been  copious 
and  soft  as  a  woman's;  Ezekiel's  must  have  been  wild  and 
terrible  tears.  Of  those  of  Jesus,  what  can  we  say,  save  that 
the  glory  of  his  greatness  and  the  mildness  of  his  meek  human- 
ity must  have  met  in  every  drop.  And  Paul's,  doubtless,  were 
slow,  oiuQt,  and  large,  as  his  profound  nature. 

An  old  poet  has  quaintly  called  Jesus  "  The  first  true  gen- 
tleman that  ever  breathed."  Paul's  politeness^  too,  must  not 
be  overlooked,  compounded  as  it  was  of  dignity  and  deference. 
It  appeared  in  the  mildness  of  the  manner  in  which  he  de- 
livered his  most  startling  and  shattering  messages,  both  to 
Jews  and  heathens ;  in  his  graceful  salutations ;  in  his  win- 
ning reproofs — the  "excellent  oil  which  did  not  break  the 
head ;"  in  the  delicacy  of  his  allusions  to  his  own  claims  and 
services ;  and,  above  all,  in  the  calm,  self-possessed  and  manly 
attitude  he  assumed  before  the  rulers  of  his  people  and  the 
Eoman  authorities.  In  the  language  of  Peter  and  John  to 
their  judges,  there  is  an  abruptness  savoring  of  their  rude  fish- 
erman life,  and  fitter  for  the  rough  echoes  of  the  lake  of  Gali- 
lee than  for  the  tribunals  of  power.  But  Paul,  w^hile  equally 
bold  and  decided,  is  far  more  gracious.  He  lowers  his  thun- 
derbolt before  his  adversary  ere  he  lanches  it.  His  shaft  is 
"polished,"  as  well  as  powerful.  His  words  to  king  Agrippa 
— "  I  would  to  God,  that  not  only  thou,  but  also  all  that  hear 
me  this  day,  were  both  almost  and  altogether  such  as  I  am,  ex- 
cept these  bonds" — are  the  most  chivalric  utterances  recorded 
in  history.  An  angel  could  not  bend  more  gracefully,  or  as- 
sume an  attitude  of  more  exalted  courtesy.  And  certain  we  are, 
that,  had  his  sermon  before  Felix  been  preserved,  it  had  been 
a  new  evidence  of  his  perfect  politeness.  No  Nathan  or  John 
Knox-like  downright  directness  in  it.     In  his  captive  circum- 


258  PAUL. 

stances,  this  had  been  offensive.  !N"o  sayino^,  in  so  many  words, 
"  Thou  art  the  man  I"  (no  pointing  even  with  his  lino-er  or  sio-- 
nificant  glance  with  his  eye) ;  but  a  grave,  calm,  impersonal 
argument  on  "  righteousness,  temperance,  and  judgment  to 
come,"  which,  as  it  "  sounded  on  its  way,"  sounded  the  very 
soul  of  the  governor,  and  made  him  tremble,  as  if  a  cold  hand 
from  above  had  been  suddenly  laid  on  his  heart.  Paul's  sermon 
he  felt  to  the  core,  trembled  at,  and  shrank  from,  but  no  more 
resented  than  if  he  had  read  it  in  the  pages  of  a  dead  author. 
Paul's  eye  miglit  have  increased  his  tremor,  but  could  no  more 
have  excited  his  wrath  than  can  those  eyes  in  pictures,  which 
seem  to  follow  our  every  motion,  and  to  read  our  very  soul,  ex- 
cite us  to  resentment  or  reprisal.  And  here,  again,  we  notice 
a  quality  fitting  Paul  to  be  the  Apostle  of  the  West.  Having 
to  stand  before  governors  and  kings,  and  the  emperor  himself, 
he  must  be  able  to  stand  with  dignity,  or  with  dignity  to  fall. 

In  accordance  with  this,  we  find  in  Paul  a  curious  union  of  pru- 
dence and  impulse.  He  is  the  subtilest  and  the  sineerest  of  men. 
Pure  and  mild  as  a  planet,  he  has  often  a  comet's  winding  coui-se. 
Determined  to  know  nothing  but  Christ  and  him  crucified,  he 
yet  becomes  "all  things  to  all  men."  Yielding  in  circumstan- 
tials and  to  circumstances,  on  all  essentials  he  is  immovably 
firm,  like  those  stones  which  an  infint's  finger  can  move,  but  no 
giant's  arm  can  overthrow.  It  is  not  cringing  subservience  ;  it  is 
not  a  base  and  low  policy,  such  as  has  frequently  been  exempli- 
fied by  leadei"s  in  the  Christian  Church,  who  have  deemed 
themselves  petty  Pauls,  but  have  been  only  miserable  carica- 
tures of  his  outer  features.  It  is  the  mere  winding  movement 
of  a  great  river  in  calm,  which,  unlike  a  flood,  does  not  over- 
bear natural  or  artificial  bulwarks,  but  kisses,  and  circles,  and 
saps  them  into  subjection.  Without  enlarging  on  his  other 
and  obvious  qualities  (on  some  of  which  Hannah  More  has  di- 
lated with  her  usual  good  sense  and  comprehension),  such  as  his 
disinterestedness,  balanced,  however,  by  an  intense  feeling  of 
his  just  rights  and  privileges  ;  his  integrity  ;  his  love  to  his  kin- 
dred according  to  the  llesh;  his  modesty;  his  thankfulness; 


PAUL.  259 

his  lieavenly-mindeduess ;  his  prayerfidness ;  his  unwearied  and 
ahnost  superhuman  activity ;  the  proud  humility  with  which, 
again  and  again,  he  took  up  the  tools  of  his  old  trade ;  his  con- 
descension to  men  of  low  estate ;  his  respect  for  God  in  the 
authorities  he  had  appointed ;  his  reverence  for  that  system  of 
Judaism  which  was  old  and  fast  vanishing  away — for  the  very 
shell  of  that  ark  whence  the  Shekinah  had  gone  up ;  his  thirst 
for  heaven ;  his  calm  and  dignified  expectation  of  the  angel  of 
death  ; — we  pause  at  one  point  of  his  character,  which  is  seldom 
noticed,  we  mean,  his  passion  for  Christ  Jesus.  This  became 
the  main  feeling  in  the  breast  of  the  "  persecutor."  He  had 
a  desire  to  depart  and  to  be  with  Christ,  which  was  tar  better : 
"  If  by  any  means  I  might  attain  unto  the  resurrection''^ — that 
is,  to  him  who  said,  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  hfe." — ''  I 
account  all  things  but  loss  for  the  excellency  of  the  knowledge  of 
Christ  Jesus."  Every  third  sentence  of  his  Epistles,  indeed, 
gleams  with  the  name  and  glory  of  Christ.  His  feehng  amounts 
to  lasciuatiou.  One  might  fancy  that  the  face  he  had  seen  on 
the  way  to  Damascus  had  ever  afterward  haunted  his  vision. 
It  is  not  the  distant  throb  of  admiration,  which  he  feels  to 
Moses  ;  it  is  the  panting  of  one  full  of  love.  •  The  heart  of  him 
who  had  only  seen  Christ  as  "  one  born  out  of  due  time,"  seems 
to  heave  in  emulation  of  John,  who  had  lain  in  his  bosom,  and 
of  Peter,  who  had  been  with  him  on  the  holy  mount.  The  flame 
is  fonned,  too,  by  another  motive.  He  had  spent  years  in  hating 
and  cursing  Christ.  In  order  to  compensate  for  the  time  thus 
fearfully  lost,  there  is  a  hurry  in  his  afiection — there  is  a  flutter 
in  his  words  of  admiration — there  is  an  anxiety  to  pour  out 
his  whole  soul  in  love  to  Christ,  as  if  economy  of  expression, 
measure  of  feeling,  modification  of  tone,  were  treason  to  his 
claims.  There  is  a  determination — "I,  the  once  bloody-minded 
Saul  of  Tarsus,  shall  be  foremost,  midst,  and  last,  in  proclaiming 
my  love  to  him,  whose  faith  I  labored  to  destroy."  It  is  beau- 
tiful to  see  Peter,  John,  and  Paul,  like  three  flames  of  holy  fire, 
chmbing  higher  and  higher  on  the  altar  before  the  Crucinedj 


260  PAUL. 

and  to  see  at  last  Paul's  pointed  column,  outsoaring  tlie  rest, 
and  becoming  "  chief  among  the  first  three." 

Was  it  for  the  sake  of  his  aspiring  and  insatiable  affection, 
that  he  was  caught  up  to  Paradise  and  to  the  third  heavens  ? 
We  may  not  dilate  on  that  mysterious  vision,  on  \yhere  he  was, 
on  what  he  saw,  on  how  long  he  was  absent,  on  what  words  he 
heard,  since  he  himself  remained  silent.  But  no  incident  in  his 
history  casts  a  richer  light  upon  the  peculiarities  of  bis  charac- 
ter, his  reticence,  his  modesty,  and  his  power  of  subordinating 
all  things  to  the  practical  purposes  of  his  office.  How  calm  the 
countenance,  above  which  throbs  a  brain  painted  around  with 
the  visions  of  God !  How  tacit  and  guarded  the  tongue,  which 
might  have  tried,  at  least,  to  stammer  out  the  deep  utterances 
of  the  blest !  How  unwilling  to  take  to  himself  superior  honor 
on  account  of  his  strange  transfiguration  !  And,  lest  any  should 
dream  that  he  had  recounted  this  trance  merely  to  elevate  him- 
self to  the  rank  of  those  who  had  been  with  Jesus  in  the  cham- 
ber of  Jairus,  in  the  inner  groves  of  Gethsemane,  and  on  the 
mount,  how  careful  and  quick  he  is  to  point  to  the  "  thorn" 
which  seemed  to  have  been  planted  in  his  flesh  in  Paradise  it- 
self !  And  how  cautious,  too,  he  is,  in  not  pronouncing — though 
probably  his  impression  was  strong — his  judgment  as  to  whether 
he  had  been  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body  when  caught  away  ! 
No  privilege,  however  peculiar,  or  elevation,  however  lofty, 
could  move  the  iron  firmness  of  his  purpose,  or  intoxicate  his 
strong  and  sober  spirit.  The  great  analyst  remained  calm  and 
clear-eyed,  even  while  he  worshiped  and  wondered  at  the  foot 
of  the  throne. 

In  speaking  of  Paul's  written  eloquence,  we  must  not  forget 
that  he  was  a  speaker  as  well  as  a  writer.  It  is  customary  to 
suppose  his  elocution  bad,  because  certain  .Corinthians  said  that 
his  bodily  presence  was  weak  and  his  speech  contemptible. 
But,  first,  this  was  the  language  of  prejudice.  Again,  those 
who  uttered  it  were  not  probably  fair  judges.  There  were 
audiences  who  despised  Foster — nay,  who  sneered  at  Chalmers 
and  even  Hall.     "  Wretched  speaker,"  is  a  comment  we  have 


PAUL.  261 

overbeard  when  returning  from  hearing  a  very  rare  exhibition  of 
intellectual  power  and  genuine  eloquence.  There  are  three  kinds 
of  true  eloquence  :  the  eloquence  of  passion  and  sympathy,  the 
eloquence  of  intellect,  and  the  eloquence  of  imagination.  To 
the  first  of  these,  all  hearts  respond ;  the  two  last,  of  which 
Paul's  was  a  compound,  have  only  power  upon  selected  spirits. 
And  let  us  remember,  that  if  the  Corinthians  despised  Paul's 
oratory^  the  people  of  Lystra  likened  him  to  Mercury.  Differ- 
ent speakers  suit  different  audiences.  Flood  failed  in  the  Brit- 
ish parliament :  Pitt  w^ould  have  failed  in  the  Irish.  Perhaps 
Paul  found  but  once  an  audience  fully  prepared  intellectually  to 
hear  him,  at  Athens,  namely ;  and  the  impression  on  the  inner 
consciousness,  if  not  on  their  outer  ear,  was  evidently  profound. 
"  Weak,"  his  bodily  presence  might  seem  to  those  who  expected 
in  him  a  colossal  reflection  of  his  colossal  purpose ;  but  often, 
as  he  warmed  and  enlarged  with  his  theme,  his  pale  ^thin  cheek 
might  flush  with  unearthly  fire,  his  eye  dart  out  lightnings,  his 
small  figure  appear  at  once  distended  and  dignified,  his  tiny 
arm  seem  a  horn  of  power,  and  his  voice  rise  into  keeping 
with  the  magnificence  of  the  truths  he  uttered,  and  of  the  lan- 
guage in  which  he  clothed  them.  Such  transfigurations  have 
been  produced  once  and  again  by  the  sheer  force  of  sympathy 
and  earnestness  (as  in  Wilberforce),  where  neither  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  Divinity  nor  the  afflatus  of  the  bard  were  present, 
and  might  surely  be  expected  and  witnessed  in  Paul,  when  all 
four  were  there. 

To  see  him,  as  an  orator,  in  a  mood  at  once  lofty  and  serene, 
let  us  stand  beside  him  on  Mars  Hill,  and  contemplate  the  scene, 
the  spectators,  the  speaker,  and  the  speech.  Magnificent,  and 
fairy-seeming,  as  a  dream  is  that  unequaled  landscape.  In 
the  distance,  are  the  old  snow-crowned  mountains,  where  gods 
were  said  to  dwell,  and  whose  hoary  heads  seem  to  smile  down 
contempt  upon  the  new  system,  and  its  solitary  defender. 
Closer  at  hand,  stretches  away  a  breathless  ocean,  doubling,  by 
its  glassy  reflection,  the  look  of  eternity  and  of  scorn  which  the 
mountains  cast.     Below,  sleeps  the  "  Eye  of  Greece,"  so  broad 


262  PAUL. 

and  bright,  with  all  its  towers  and  temples,  and  with  the  hum 
of  its  evening  talk  and  evening  worship,  rising  up  the  still  air. 
Slowly  sinking  toward  the  west,  Apollo  is  taking  leave  of  his 
beloved  cit}^,  while,  perhaps,  one  ray  from  his  setting  orb 
strikes  upon  the  bare  brow  of  the  daring  Jew  who  is  about  to 
assail  his  empire.  The  scene  altogether,  how  solemn  !  It  is  as 
if  nature  were  interested,  if  not  alarmed,  and  had  become  silent, 
to  listen  to  some  mysterious  tidings.  The  spectators,  who 
shall  describe,  after  Raphael  has  painted  them  ?  Suffice  it,  that 
the  elite  of  the  vainest  and  the  wisest  people  of  the  world,  the 
most  subtile  of  sophists,  and  the  most  eloquent  of  declaimers, 
are  there  ;  that  Paul  must  bear  th^  snowy  sneer  of  the  Epicurean, 
the  statuesque  derision  of  the  Stoic,  the  rapt  misty  eye  of  the 
Academic,  the  blind  and  furious  scowl  of  the  superstitious  rabble, 
the  sharper  and  deeper  malice  lurking  in  the  eye  of  the  Jew, 
the  anxious  look  of  his  own  few  but  faithful  friends,  and  the 
keen  anatomic  glance  of  the  mere  critic,  collected  as  if  into  one 
massive,  motley,  shifting,  yet  still  and  sculptured  face,  which 
seems  absolutely  to  circle  him  in,  as  it  glares  upon  him.  And 
before  and  within  all  this,  there  he  stands,  the  tentmaker  of 
Tarsus.  Is  he  not  ashamed  or  afraid  to  address  the  over- 
whelming audience  ?  Shrinks  he  not  from  the  task  ?  Falters 
not  his  tongue  ?  Gathers  not  his  cheek  crimson  ?  Ashamed  ! 
Shall  the  archangel  be  ashamed  when  he  comes  forward,  amid 
a  silent  universe,  to  blow  the  blast  that  shall  call  the  dead  to 
judgment,  dissolve  the  elements  of  nature,  and  awaken  the  fires 
of  his  doom  ?  No  more  does  Paul's  voice  falter,  or  do  his  limbs 
shake.  He  rises  to  the  majesty  of  the  scene.  He  fills,  easily 
and  amply,  the  great  sphere  which  he  finds  around  him.  He 
feels  the  dignity  of  his  position.  He  knows  he  has  a  message 
from  the  God  who  made  that  ocean,  these  mountains,  and  these 
heavens.  The  men  of  Athens  are  clamoring  for  some  "  new 
thing" — he  has  the  latest  news  from  the  throne  of  God.  They 
are  worshiping  the  "unknown  God" — it  is  his  task  to  unvail 
his  image,  and  show  him  shining  in  the  face  of  Christ  Jesus. 
Not  (as  Raphael  represents  him,  iu  an  attitude  too  impassioned 


PAUL.  2G3 

for  the  speech,  beneath  its  calm  greatness) — -not  with  raised  and 
outspread  arms,  but  with  still,  strong,  demonstrative  finger 
uplifted,  and  eye  meeting,  Thermopylie-like,  all  those  multi- 
tudinous visages,  with  their  crowd  of  varied  expression,  does 
he  stand,  and  pour  out  that  oration,  surpassing  the  orations 
whereby  Pericles  and  Demosthenes  "shook  the  Arsenal" — 
sweet  as  the  eloquence  of  Plato,  and  awful  as  the  thunder  of 
Jove — condensing  in  its  nine  immortal  sentences,  all  the  primal 
truths  of  nature  and  of  Christianity :  God,  the  One,  the  Un- 
searchable, the  Creator,  the  Spirit,  the  Universal  Ruler,  Bene- 
factor and  Provider,  the  only  Object  of  Worship,  the  Father  of 
Man,  and  his  Former  of  one  Blood,  the  Merciful,  the  All- 
Present,  the  Hearer  of  Prayer,  the  Ordainer  and  Raiser  from 
the  Dead  of  Jesus,  and  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  upon  the 
Great  Day ;  and  at  the  close  of  which,  first  a  silence,  deeper 
than  that  which  made  them,  '■  all  ear,"  and  then  a  murmur, 
loud,  conflicting,  and  innumerous  as  that  of  ocean's  waves, 
attest  its  powder ;  while,  lo !  as  some  are  mocking,  and  others 
saying,  "  We  will  hear  thee  again  of  this  matter,"  the  speaker 
seems  to  sink  down,  and  melt  away.  The  cloud  has  scattered 
its  thunder-rain,  and  has  to  them  disappeared  forever. 

This  speech  on  Mars  Ilill  is  as  calm  as  it  is  comprehensive. 
But,  throughout  his  Epistles,  there  are  scattered  passages,  in 
which  his  spirit  is  hurried  along,  as  by  a  mighty  rushing  wind, 
into  vehement  and  passionate  rapture.  Such  enthusiasms  never 
arise  till  his  trains  of  thought  are  finished.  And  we  are  some- 
times tempted  to  imagine  that  they  have  been  longed  for  as  im- 
patiently by  the  writer,  as  they  are  often  by  the  uninitiated 
reader.  From  the  diflScult,  although  needful,  task  of  reconciling 
the  Jewish  with  the  Christian  dispensation,  or  of  explaining  his 
own  conduct  to  the  babes  and  sucklings  of  the  churches  he  had 
planted,  Paul,  even  Paul  the  aged,  the  persecuted,  the  expected 
and  expectant  of  Nero's  sword,  springs  up  exulting,  into  the 
broad  and  lofty  fields  of  common  Christian  hope  and  joy.  In 
this  mood  it  is  that  he  hushes  the  groanings  of  the  creation, 
amid  the  resounding  song,  "  Who  shall  separate  us  from  the 


264  PAUL. 

love  of  Christ  ?  we  are  in  all  things  more  than  conquerors, 
through  him  that  loved  us ;"  that  while  underrating  in  com- 
parison of  love  even  angels'  tongues,  he  praises  it  with  more 
than  an  angel's  eloquence  ;  that  he  sets  the  doctrine  of  the  res- 
urrection to  solemn  music ;  that  he  shouts  peans  over  the  vic- 
tories of  faith ;  and  that  he  paints  now  the  cloud  of  witnesses, 
now  the  scene  at  Sinai,  and  again  tlie  fiery  coming  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ.  Such  passages  affect  you  more  from  the  deep 
disquisitions  which  precede,  and  the  close  and  cogent  practical 
lessons  which  follow  them. 

What  strikes  us  principally  about  these  disquisitions  of  Paul, 
and  about  his  raptures — the  two  out  of  the  three  parts  of  which 
his  Epistles  consist — is  a  certain  air  of  struggle  and  effort  they 
both  exhibit.  His  argument  has  sometimes  the  eagerness  and 
the  indistinctness  of  one  pleaded  in  a  dream.  Language  yields 
often  below  his  strong  steps.  His  eloquence  labors  to  express 
conceptions  which  seem  inexpressible.  His  feelings  too,  is  only 
half  uttered,  and-  only  half  realized.  The  powers  of  Greek  are 
tasked  in  such  phrases  as  Kad'  ^vnBQ^oh]v  eig  'vnsQ^olrjv^  but 
tasked  in  vain.  Were  it  not  that  his  mouth  seemed  shut,  as 
by  an  oath,  against  all  betrayal  of  the  particulars  of  his  visions, 
we  might  suppose  him  now  and  then  uttering  snatches  of  those 
mystic  strains  he  had  heard  in  Paradise,  and  was  able  on  earth 
to  remember,  but  not  to  understand  or  explain.  These  are  his 
"sayings,  hard  to  be  understood,"  of  which  Peter  speaks,  and 
over  which  we  see  still  many  mortal,  and  many  immortal,  brows 
bending  in  eagerness  ;  for  even  unto  "  these  things  do  the  angels 
desire  to  look." 

Three  subjects  of  wonder — for  with  Paul,  as  with  all  writers 
of  the  highest  class,  criticism  soon  fades  into  wonder — remain  ; 
one  is  the  minute  practical  bearing  of  his  conclusions.  After 
having  sounded  depAs,  which  may  be  the  fear  of  cherubim, 
and  soared  to  heights,  where  they  stand,  with  faces  vailed,  and 
with  heads  whence  the  crowns  have  been  cast  away,  he  turns 
round,  without  any  loss  of  dignity  or  feeling  of  degradation,  to 
give  careful  counsels  to  the  humblest  of  saints ;    to  "  salute 


PAUL.  265 

Tryphemi  and  Trypbosa ;"  to  remember  a  poor  teinale  slave ; 
to  inquire  about  the  cloak  and  parchments  he  had  left  at  Troas ; 
and  to  immortalize  in  ignominy  Alexander  a  coppersmith, 
henceforth  the  coppersmith  for  evermore.  The  golden  head  of 
the  great  man  often  ends  in  feet  of  miry  clay,  at  once  clumsy 
and.  foul ;  but  Paul's  subtile  power  is  equally  difiased.  down  his 
whole  nature — majeslsc  on  all  great,  he  is  mindful  of  all  little 
things.  The  second  marvel  is  the  small  compass  in  which  his 
Epistles  lie.  The  longest  of  them  are  short.  There  is  not  a 
day  but  letters,  longer  than  those  to  the  Romans  or  the  He- 
brews, are  passing  from  country  to  country,  and  city  to  city. 
His  letter  to  Philemon  is  a  mere  card.  And  yet,  round  these 
little  notes,  piles  of  commentaries  have  darkened  ;  from  them, 
as  from  a  point  of  separation,  entire  sects  have  diverged  ;  over 
them,  alas  !  blood  has  been  spilled ;  and  in  them,  lie  mysteries, 
the  very  edge  of  which  has  hardly  yet  transpired.  Of  what 
series  of  letters  out  of  Scripture,  but  these,  can  the  half  of  this 
be  said  ?  And  the  power  thus  lodged  in  them,  what  can  we 
call  it,  if  we  call  it  not  divine  ?  No  charlatan,  no  fanatic,  no 
pedant,  no  mere  genius,  could,  by  such  brief  touches,  have  so 
roused  the  "  majestic  world." 

For  mark,  these  letters,  while  making  no  pretensions  to  lite- 
rary merit,  while  recording  no  new  miracles,  do  announce  them- 
selves as  from  the  Lord,  and  do  testify  to  the  supernatural 
character  of  Jesus  Christ,  did  therefore  commit  their  credit,  and 
that  of  their  author,  to  the  entire  claims  of  Christianity,  and 
expose  themselves  to  severe  tests,  and  to  the  keenest  scrutiny. 
And  it  is  because  they  came  forth  from  this  triumphantly,  and 
made  the  prejudiced  confess  their  truth,  and  feel  their  power, 
that  they  now  live  and  shine,  as  though  written  in  stars  upon 
the  page  of  the  heavens. 

Our  third  wonder  is  their  variety  of  subject,  and  tone,  and 
merit.  The  idea  of  Paul,  indeed,  throughout  all  his  writings, 
is  the  same.  It  is  that  of  the  largeness  of  Christianity,  as  com- 
pared with  the  law  of  Moses,  and  its  unity  and  holiness,  when 
contrasted  with  heathenism.     It  may  be  expressed  in  one  of  the 


260  PAUL. 

sentences  uttered  by  bim  fri&m  Mars  Hill : — "  God  (the  one  spirit) 
has  made  of  one  blood  all  nations  that  dwell  upon  the  face  of 
the  earth,  and  now  coramandeth  all  men  everywhere  to  repent." 
His  difficulties,  in  enforcing  this  great  compound  idea,  arise  from 
his  doctrine  of  a  special  divine  love,  and  from  the  prejudices  of 
Judaizing  believers  ;  and  to  meet  those  difficulties,  all  the  ener- 
gies of  his  intellect  are  bent.  He  seeks  to  bring  the  tabernacle, 
on  the  one  hand,  with  its  worshipei's,  but  without  its  tempo- 
rary rites,  and  the  heathen  Avorshipers,  on  the  other,  without 
their  idols,  under  the  reconciling  rainbow  of  the  covenant.  But, 
while  ever  pursuing  this  master-thought,  he  seeks  it  through  a 
great  variety  of  paths.  And  hence  monotony,  always  a  literary 
sin  of  magnitude,  attaches  not  at  all  to  his  Epistles.  Not  one 
is  a  duplicate  of  another.  His  principal  object  in  the  Romans 
is  to  level  Jew  and  Gentile  in  one  dust,  that  he  may  first  sur- 
prise them  into  one  salvation,  and  then,  by  the  strong  force  of 
gratitude,  "  conclude,"  or  shut  them  all  up  into  one  holy  obe- 
dience. In  the  Hebrews,  it  is  to  shovf  the  unity  in  diversity,  and 
the  diversity  in  unity,  of  the  two  systems  of  Judaism  and  Chris- 
tianity, which  he  does  by  a  comparison,  so  subtile,  yet  so  clear 
and  candid,  that  even  prejudice,  ere  the  close,  is  prepared  to 
exult  with  him  in  this  triumphant  preference  of  the  hill  Sion, 
to  the  faded  fires  and  deadened  thunders  of  the  "  Mount  that 
might  be  touched."  In  his  First  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians, 
he  plunges  into  the  thick  of  Christian  duty,  into  questions 
of  casuistry,  into  minute  practical  details,  gathering  them  all 
along  with  him  as  he  rushes  on  to  the  grand  climax  of  the  Res- 
urrection, with  its  prospective  and  retrospective  bearings  upon 
personal  holiness,  till  his  call  to  Corinthian  backsliders  seems 
to  thunder  through  the  last  trump.  And  so  with  his  other 
letters.  In  some  of  them,  his  chief  purpose  is  to  proclaim  the 
glory  of  Christ.  In  others,  it  is  to  announce  his  Second  Advent. 
In  others,  it  is  to  magnify  his  own  office,  and  to  stir  up  the  de- 
clining liberality  of  his  correspondents.  In  others,  it  is  to  teach, 
warn,  exhort,  and  encourage  some  of  his  leading  children  in  the 
faith.     And  in  one,  tlie  shortest  and  sweetest  of  all,  written  in 


I'AUL.  267 

a  prison,  but  redolent  of  the  virgin  air  of  liberty,  he  condescends 
to  baptize  what  had  been  a  bond  of  harsh  necessity  and  fear 
between  two  men,  Philemon  and  Onesimus,  into  a  bond  of 
Christian  brotherhood  and  love. 

The  style,  too,  and  tone  are  different.  Paul's  "  token,"  to 
be  sure,  "  is  in  every  Epistle."  His  presence  proclaims  itself 
by  divers  infallible  marks  :  a  kindly  and  earnest  introduction, 
fervor  of  spirit,  a  close  train  of  argument,  winding  on  to  end 
in  a  tail  of  fire,  a  digressive  movement,  short  bursts  of  elo- 
quence, sudden  swells  of  devotion,  audible  yearnings  of  affec- 
tion, strong  and  melting  advices,  minute  remembrances,  and  a 
rich  and  effectual  blessing  at  the  close.  But  to  some  of  his 
Epistles,  the  description  and  denunciation  of  sin  give  a  dark, 
oppressive  grandeur.  Witness  the  1st  chapter  of  the  Romans, 
which  reminds  us  of  God  looking  down  upon  the  children  of 
men,  "  to  see  if  any  did  understand  or  know  God,"  and  beck- 
oning on  the  deluge,  as  he  says,  "  They  are  altogether  become 
filthy  ;  there  is  none  that  doeth  good,  no,  not  one."  Others 
sparkle  with  the  light  of  immortality,  and  might  have  been 
penned  by  the  finger  of  Paul's  "  Ptesurrection-body."  Others 
glow  with  a  deep,  mild,  autumnal  luster,  as  if  reflected  from 
the  face  of  him  he  had  seen  as  one  born  out  of  due  time  ;  they 
are  full  of  Christ's  love.  Some,  like  the  book  of  Hebrews,  rise 
into  rich  rhetoric,  from  intricate  and  laborious  argument,  and 
contain  little  that  is  personally  characteristic.  Others  are  simple 
as  beatings  of  his  heart.  On  one  or  two,  the  glory  of  the 
Second  Advent  lies  so  brightly,  that  the  gulf  of  death  is  buried 
in  the  radiance  ;  in  others,  his  own  approaching  departure, 
with  its  circumstances  of  suffering  and  of  triumph,  fills  the 
field  of  view ;  and  he  says,  "  I  am  now  ready  to  be  offered,  and 
the  time  of  my  departure  is  at  hand." 

Such  are  the  letters  of  Paul — letters  which,  like  the  works, 
large  or  small,  of  all  the  great,  seem  to  descend  from,  instead 
of  overtopping,  the  writer.  And  we  try  to  complete  the  image 
of  the  man,  by  piecing  together  those  broken  fragments  of  his 
soul— broken,  thouo-h  all  seeking  and  tendino-  to  unit  v.     His 


268  PAUL. 

life,  after  all,  was  the  l*oem  ;  he  himself  is  "'  our  Epistle."  A 
wondrous  life  it  was.  Whether  we  view  him,  with  low  bent 
head  and  eager  eye,  at  the  feet  of  Gamaliel ;  or  sitting  near 
Stephen's  stoning,  disdaining  to  wet  his  hands,  but  wetting  his 
soul  in  his  blood  ;  or,  under  a  more  entire  possession  of  his 
fanaticism,  haling  men  and  w^omen  to  prison  ;  or,  far  before  his 
comrades  on  the  way  to  Damascus,  panting  like  a  hound  when 
his  scent  of  game  is  getting  intolerable  ;  or  lifting  up  one  last 
furious  glance  through  his  darkening  eyes  to  the  bright  form 
and  face  of  Jesus  ;  or  led  by  the  hand,  the  corpse  of  his  former 
self,  into  the  city,  which  had  been  waiting  in  panic  for  his 
coming ;  or  "  rolling  his  eyes  in  vain  to  find  the  day,"  as 
Ananias  enters  ;  or  let  down  from  the  wall  in  a  basket — the 
Christianity  of  the  A¥estern  world  suspended  on  the  trembling 
rope  ;  or  bashful  and  timid,  when  introduced  to  Cephas  and 
the  other  pillars  of  the  Church,  who,  in  their  turn,  shrink  at 
first  from  the  Tiger  of  Tarsus,  tamed  though  he  be  ;  or  rending 
his  garments  at  Lystra,  when  they  are  preparing  him  divine 
honors ;  or,  with  firm  yet  sorrowful  look,  parting  with  Bar- 
nabas at  Antioch  ;  or  in  the  pi-ison,  and  after  the  earthquake, 
silent,  unchained,  still  as  marble,  while  the  jailer  leaps  in  trem- 
bling, to  say,  "  What  must  I  do  to  be  saved  ?"  or  turning, 
with  dignified  resentment,  from  the  impenitent  Jews  to  the 
Gentiles  ;  or  preaching  in  the  upper  chamber,  Eutychus  ahve, 
through  sleep  and  death  ;  or  weeping  at  the  ship's  side  at  Mile- 
tus ;  or  standing  on  the  stairs  at  Jerusalem,  and  beckoning 
to  an  angry  multitude ;  or  repelling  the  charge  of  madness 
before  Festus,  more  by  his  looks  and  his  folded  arms,  than  by 
his  words ;  or  calm,  as  the  figure  at  the  ship's  head,  amid  the 
terrors  of  the  storm  ;  or  shaking  off  the  vii^er  from  his  hand  as 
if  with  the 

"  Silent  magnanimity  of  Katm'e  and  her  God;" 

or,  in  Rome,  cherishing  the  chain  like  a  garment ;  or,  with 
shackled  arm,  writing  those  words  of  God,  "  never  to  be 
bound;"  or  confronting  Nero,  as  JJ>aniel  did  his  lions  in  the 


PAUL.  269 

den,  and  subduing  him  under  the  mere  stress  of  soul ;  or,  at 
last,  yielding  his  head  to  the  axe,  and  passing  away  to  receive 
the  "  Crown  of  Life"  the  Lord  was  to  confer  upon  him  ; 
wherever,  and  in  whatever  circumstances,  Paul  appears,  his  na- 
ture, like  a  sun,  displays  itself  entire,  in  its  intensity,  its  earnest- 
ness, its  clear  honesty,  its  incessant  activity,  its  struggle  to  in- 
clude the  world  in  its  grasp — but  is  shaded,  as  evening  draws 
on,  into  milder  hues,  tenderer  traits,  and  a  holier  effulgence. 
And  though  the  light  went  down  in  darkness  and  blood,  its 
relict  radiance  still  shines  upon  us  like  the  Parthenon,  which 
seemed  "  carved  out  of  an  Athenian  sunset."  Who  that  wit- 
nessed the  persecutor  on  his  way  to  Damascus,  could  have  pre- 
dicted that  a  noon  of  such  torrid  flame  could  so  tenderly  and 
divinely  die  ;  and  that  the  name  of  Paul,  when  uttered  now, 
should  come  to  the  Christian  ear,  as  if  carried  on  the  breath  of 
that  "  south  wind  which  blew  softly"  while  he  and  the  Ever- 
lasting Gospel  were  sailing  together  past  the  Cretan  shore  to 
Rome  ? 


CHAPTER    XV. 

PETER  AND  JAMES. 

The  poetry  of  Peter  lies  more  in  his  character  than  in  his  writ- 
ings, although  both  display  its  unequivocal  presence.  His  ini- 
petuosity,  his  forwardness,  his  outspoken  utterance,  his  mistakes 
and  blunders,  his  want  of  tact,  his  familiarity  with  his  master, 
his  warm-heartedness,  his  simplicity  of  character,  render  him 
the  Oliver  Goldsmith  of  the  New  Testament.  It  was  owing  to 
the  child-hke  temperament  of  genius,  blended  with  peculiar 
warmth  of  heart,  that  he  on  one  occasion  took  Jesus  aside,  and 
began  to  rebuke  him — that  he  said,  on  another,  "  thou  shalt  never 
wash  my  feet ;"  but  added  immediately,  on  being  told  what  it 
imported,  "Lord,  not  my  feet  only,  but  my  hands  and  my  head" 
— that  he  muttered  on  the  Mount  of  the  Transfiguration,  the 
supremely  absurd  words,  spoken  as  if  through  a  dream,  "  Let 
us  make  here  three  tabernacles,  one  for  thee,  one  for  Moses,  and 
one  for  Elias" — that  he  drew  his  sword,  and  cut  off  the  ear  of 
Malchus — that  he  adventured  on  the  water  where  Christ  was 
walking — that  he  was  the  spokesman  of  the  twelve,  always 
ready,  whether  with  sense  or  with  kindly  nonsense — and  tkat 
his  aflfectionate  nature  was  grieved  when  Christ  asked  at  him 
the  third  time,  "  Lovest  thou  me  ?"  With  this  temperament 
consort  his  faults  ;  his  boldness  breaks  down  when  danger  ap- 
pears, as  has  often  happened  with  men  of  the  poetical  tempera- 
ment ;  even  in  his  denial  of  Christ,  we  see  the  fervor  of  the  man 
— it  is  with  oaths  and  curses,  for  his  very  sin  has  an  emphasis 
with  it.  And  in  fine  keeping,  too,  with  this,  are  the  tears  pro- 
duced by  Christ's  look  (Christ  knew  that  for  Peter  a  look  was 


PETER    AND    JAMES.  27l 

enough)-— fast,  fiery,  bitter,  and  renewed,  it  is  said,  whenever 
he  heard  the  cock  crow,  till  his  dying  day. 

The  change  produced  on  Peter  after  the  resurrection  is  very 
singular.  We  can  scarce  at  first  recognize  the  blunderer  on 
Transfiguration  Hill,  the  sleeper  in  Gethsemane,  the  gravely- 
stupid  and  unconsciously  impudent  rebuker  of  Jesus,  the  open- 
mouthed,  grown-up  child,  in  the  solemn  president  of  Pentecost, 
the  bold  declaimer  at  the  "  gate  called  Beautiful,"  the  dignified 
captive  sisted  before  the  rulers  and  the  high-priests,  the  minister 
of  divine  justice  standing  with  the  javehn  of  death  over  Ananias 
and  Sapphira,  the  thauraaturgist,  whose  long  evening  shadow 
swept  and  cured  sick  streets,  and  before  whom  an  angel  opened 
the  prison-doors,  or  the  first  embassador  to  the  Gentile  world. 
But  such  a  change  has  often  been  exemplified  in  persons  of  re- 
markable character,  under  the  pressure  of  pecuKar  circumstances, 
or  through  the  force  of  great  excitement.  The  story  of  the  first 
Brutus,  although  probably  a  mythic  fable,  contains  in  it  a  wide 
truth,  inclosing  a  hundred  facts  within  it.  "  Call  no  man  happy, 
till  he  is  dead."  Call  no  man  stupid,  till  he  be  dead.  Give  the 
god  within  the  man  fair  play,  feed  him  with  food  convenient 
for  him,  and  he  may  in  due  time  produce  a  divine  progeny. 
The  Atlantean  burden  will  often  awaken  the  Atlantean  strength 
to  bear  it.  In  Peter — the  forward,  the  rash,  but  the  loving,  the 
sincere,  and  the  simple-minded — there  slumbered  a  wisdom  and 
sagacity,  a  fervor  and  an  eloquence,  which  the  first  touch  of 
the  fiery  tongue  of  Pentecost  aroused  into  an  undying  flame,  to 
become  a  light,  a  glory,  and  a  defense  around  the  infant  Church. 
"  Desertion,"  which  Foster  has  recorded  as  one  grand  ally  to 
"  decision  of  character,"  did  its  wonted  work  on  him.  Left  by 
Christ  foremost  in  the  gap,  a  portion  of  Christ's  spirit  was  be- 
stowed on  him,  and  his  native  faculty — great  but  uncultured 
— was  effectually  stirred  up.  Remorse,  too,  had  wrung  his 
heart ;  tears  had  been  his  burning  baptism — and  let  those  who 
have  experienced  tell  how  high  the  soul  sometimes  springs 
to  the  sting  of  woe.  The  new  birth  of  intellect,  like  the  nat- 
ural birth  of  man,  and  the  n^w   birth  of  God's  Spirit,  is  fre- 


272  PETER    AND    JAMES. 

quently  through  pangs,  as  dear  on  reflection  as  they  are  dread- 
ful in  endurance.  Nor  had  Peter  not  profited  by  his  intercourse 
with  Chi'ist,  during  his  stay  on  earth  after  the  resurrection — the 
most  interesting  portion  of  which  recorded,  is  indeed  a  pathetic 
interview  between  the  forgiven  denier  and  his  appeased  and 
loving  Lord. 

A  more  wonderful  contrast  than  this,  between  Peter  before 
and  Peter  after  the  resurrection,  would  be  presented,  did  we  ac- 
cept the  monstrous  pre-eminence  given  to  him  by  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church.  We  refer  our  readers,  for  a  confutation  of  this 
error,  to  Isaac  Barrow's  unanswered  and  unanswerable  treatise. 
But,  besides,  we  confess  that  we  can  not,  without  ludicrous  emo- 
tions, think  of  poor,  talking,  imprudent,  noble-hearted  Peter  of 
Galilee,  as  the  predecessor  of  the  many  proud,  ambitious,  sche- 
ming, mendacious,  lewd,  and  thoroughly  worldly  and  selfish 
Popes;  and  are  disposed  to  laugh  still  more  loudly,  when  we 
find  his  escapades,  his  rash,  unthinking  words,  his  want  of  reti- 
cence and  common  sense,  paraded  by  Papists  (because  in  all 
these  things  he  was  first),  as  evidences  that  even  then  he  had 
laid  the  foundation  for  his  universal  sway.  Besides,  did  his 
one  denial  form  a  precedent  for  the  infinite  series  of  falsehoods 
that  Church  has  since  palmed  on  the  world?  Did  his  one 
stream  of  curses  create  that  deep  river  of  blasphemy,  which  has 
run  down  collaterally  with  the  progress  of  the  Roman  Cathohc 
faith  ?  xind  how  could  the  intrepid  fisherman,  with  his  "coat 
off" — the  humble  married  man — recognize  his  successors  in  the 
pampered  and  purple-clad  prelates — many  of  whom  would  have 
been  ready  to  fling  the  price  of  all  purgatory  into  their  courte- 
zan's lap. 

Great,  unquestionably,  as  the  change  was  upon  Peter,  after 
he  had  fallen  and  Christ  had  departed,  much  of  his  former  char- 
acter remained.  His  language  before  his  judges  breathes  not 
a  little  of  the  unceremonious  fisherman,  although  his  attitude^ 
has  become  more  dignified,  and  his  eye  be  shining  with  a  pen- 
tecostal  fire.  In  his  impetuous  mission  to  the  Gentiles,  and  in 
his  sensitiv<^  and  shrinkinof  conduct  when  reproached  for  it — in 


PETEK    A\D    JAMKS.  273 

all  that  line  of  action,  for  whicli  Paul  rebuked  him  to  the  face — 
we  see  the  old  man  of  warmth  and  weakness,  ardent  in  temper- 
ament and  narrow  in  views,  rapid  in  advance  and  hasty  in  re- 
treat. But  that  any  jealousy  for  Paul  ever  entered  Peter's  mind, 
we  can  not  believe,  or,  if  it  did,  it  must  have  been  the  transient 
feehng  of  a  child,  who  this  moment  weeps  because  her  sister  has 
received  a  prettier  plaything  than  she,  and  is  the  next  fondling 
'ler  in  her  arms,  and  the  next  asleep  in  her  bosom. 

Another  change  still  was  before  Peter.  His  nature  must  at 
once  soften  and  sublimate  into  its  final  shape — the  shape  in 
which  his  letters  reveal  and  leave  him.  And  that  is  a  form  as 
iovely  as  it  is  majestic.  The  weakness  of  his  youth  is  all  gone, 
but  its  warmth  remains.  The  Jewish  prejudice,  which  survived 
his  early  days,  and  seemed  somehow  to  befit  the  "  apostle  of 
the  circumcision,"  has  been  exchanged  for  a  catholic  charity. 
On  his  brow,  now  overhung  by  silver  hair,  there  meet  the 
glories  of  the  "  holy  mount,"  and  those  of  the  day  of  his  de- 
parture, when  he  shall  again  see  and  embrace  his  Lord.  A 
tearful  sublimity,  as  of  a  sun  setting  amid  rainy  clouds ;  a 
yearning  affection  ;  a  fullness  of  evangelical  statement ;  an 
earnestness  of  practical  admonition ;  a  perpetual  and  lingering 
reference  to  Christ ;  a  soft  shade  of  sadness,  at  the  prospect  of 
the  speedy  disappearance  of  all  earthly  things,  brightly  relieved, 
however,  by  glimpses  of  his  Lord's  appearance — these,  with 
some  shadowy  hints  as  to  the  intermediate  state,  and  one  pic- 
ture of  the  Sodom-like  sins  of  his  day,  form  the  constituent  fea- 
tures of  the  two  Epistles  addressed  by  Peter  to  the  "  strangers 
scattered  throughout  Pontus,  Galatia,  Cappadocia,  Asia,  and 
Bithynia,  and  to  those  who  have  obtained  like  precious  faith 
with  us."  Their  style,  like  their  spirit,  is  mild  and  sweet. 
Gravity,  dignity,  and  grace — how  unlike  his  hurried  words  of 
yore  ! — distinguish  every  line.  Perhaps  only  in  one  passage 
do  we  see  the  old  fire  of  the  fisherman,  unsoftened  and  unsub- 
dued by  trial,  experience,  or  time.  AVe  speak  of  the  tremen- 
dous invective,  contained  in  the  second  chapter  of  the  Second 
Epistlp,  against  the  false  teachers  of  the  time — one  of  four  or 


2V4  PETEK    A^'D    JAMES. 

five  "burning  coals  of  juniper"  which,  as  if  carried  from  the 
conflao-rations  of  the  old  prophets,  are  thrown  down  here  and 
there  amid  the  more  placid  pages  of  the  New  Testament.  Such 
are  Christ's  denunciation  of  the  Pharisees,  Paul's  account  of  the 
heathen  world ;  and  beside,  and  almost  identical  wath,  Peter's 
invective,  is  the  Epistle  of  Jude.  That,  indeed,  is  but  one  red 
ray  from  the  "  wrath  of  the  Lamb."  But  in  Jude,  as  well  as  in 
Peter,  poetry  blends  Avith,  strangely  beautifies,  and  clearly  dis- 
covers the  solemn  purpose  and  terror  of  the  prophetic  strain. 
Behold  the  dreary  cluster  of  metaphors,  like  a  grove  of  various 
trees,  all  withered  into  the  unity  of  death,  of  which  Peter  be- 
gins, and  Jude  closes,  the  collection.  "  These,"  says  Peter,  "  are 
wells  without  water — clouds  that  are  carried  with  a  tempest ;  to 
whom  the  mist  of  darkness  is  reserved  forever."  "  Clouds," 
says  the  yet  sterner  Jude,  "they  are  without  water,  carried 
about  of  winds  ;  trees  whose  fruit  withereth,  without  fruit,  twice 
dead,  plucked  up  by  the  roots  ;  raging  waves  of  the  sea,  foam- 
ing out  their  own  shame  ;  wandering  stars,  to  whom  is  reserved 
the  blackness  of  darkness  forever."  If  this  is  imitation,  it  is 
the  imitation  of  one  animated  by  a  kindred  spirit,  and  possess- 
ing a  still  stronger  and  darker  fancy. 

We  have  already  defended  such  denunciations  of  sin,  which 
are  proper  to  both  Testaments,  although  more  frequently  found 
in  the  Old,  because  they  express,  not  private,  but  public  resent- 
ment. While  hearing  them,  we  should  say,  "  It  is  the  voice  of  a 
Ood,  and  not  of  a  man."  Indeed,  their  divinity  is  proved  by  their 
grandeur  and  daring.  They  are  as  beautiful  as  terrible.  They  are 
"  winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage."  Passion  there 
is  in  them,  but  it  is  sublimed,  transfigured,  purified  ;  approach- 
ing, in  its  power  and  justice,  to  that  wrath  on  which  the  sun 
never  goes  down,  and  expressing,  not  the  malignity  of  earth, 
but  the  "  malison  of  Heaven."  Had  we  seen  Paul,  Peter,  or 
Jude,  inscribing  those  words  of  doom,  or  had  we  witnessed 
Christ's  face  darkening  into  the  divinest  sorrow,  or  heard  his 
voice  trembling  in  grief,  as  well  as  anger,  we  should  have  felt 
in  a  higher  degree,  the  emotioji    of  the  skoptic   who  liad  been 


PETER    A  Nil    JAMES.  2*75 

reproaching  Christ  for  his  angry  language  to  the  Pharisees,  but 
who,  when  Channing  took  up  the  book,  and  read  it  aloud,  said 
— "  Oh  !  if  that,  indeed,  were  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke  I"  If 
that  were  the  tone  !  Could  not  Jesus  have  eloquized  his  own 
words  better  than  the  good  and  noble-minded  American  ?  Must 
not  the  Ithuriel  rebuke  have  been  pointed  by  the  Ithuriel  tones, 
as  well  as  by  the  Ithuriel  countenance  ? 


"  So  spake  the  cherub,  and  his  grave  rebuke, 
Severe  in  youthful  beauty,  added  grace 
Invincible;' 


Safer^  after  all,  to  reproach  than  to  encounter  such  fires  of 
righteous  resistless  anger,  "running  along  the  ground."  "  Kiss 
the  Son,  lest  he  be  angry,  and  ye  perish  from  the  way." 

Peter's  distinction,  both  as  a  writer  and  man,  is  not  so  much 
fancy  or  intellect,  as  it  is  feeling.  Running  riot  in  his  early 
history,  fluctuating  in  his  middle  life,  it  is  in  his  Epistles  a 
calm  and  steady  flame,  burning  heavenward.  Rejecting,  as 
probably  a  fiction,  the  story  that  he  desired  to  be  crucified  with 
head  downward,  lest  he  should  have  too  much  honor  in  assum- 
ing the  attitude  of  his  denied  and  dying  Lord,  we  may  see  in 
it  a  mythic  emblem  of  his  ultimate  lowhness  of  spirit,  as  well 
as  of  the  inversion  of  character  which  he  underwent.  It  may 
represent,  too,  those  sacrifices  within  sacrifices  so  common  in 
that  martyr  age,  in  which  men  sought  for  fearful  varieties  of 
death — gloried  in  provoking  their  adversaries  to  invent  new  tor- 
ments— made,  at  the  least,  no  compromise  with  the  last  enemy, 
nor  wished  one  of  his  beams  of  terror  shorn — so  certain  were 
they  on  the  one  hand,  that  their  sufferings  could  never  ap- 
proach the  measure  of  their  master's,  and,  on  the  other,  that 
the  reward  was  near,  and  unspeakably  transcendent.  Crucified 
with  inverted  head,  or  impaled  on  iron  stakes,  or  breast-deep  in 
flames,  it  mattered  not,  since  Paradise  smiled,  and  Jesus  beck- 
oned, almost  visibly  beside  them.  Let  us  pardon  even  the  mad- 
ness of  that  primitive  rage  for  martvrdom,  wh^n   wf  think   of 


27(3  PETER    AN^D    JAMES. 

the  primitive  patience  of  liope  and  security  of  faith  from  which 
it  sprung. 

It. is  impossible  to  contemplate  Peters  works  out  of  the 
checkered  light  of  his  character.  It  is  different  with  James, 
whose  character  is  only  to  be  read  in  his  Epistle,  for  all  tradi- 
tionary notices  of  his  history  and  habits  seem  uncertain.  We 
know  little  of  him,  except  that  he  was  not  the  James  who  stood 
with  Jesus  on  the  Mount ;  that  he  was  known  as  James  the  Less  ; 
and  that  many  identify  him  with  James,  the  Lord's  brother,  of 
whom  Paul  speaks.  At  the  Council  of  Jerusalem,  he  acted, 
in  some  measure,  as  moderator ;  and  his  letter,  as  well  as  his 
speech,  shows  him  to  have  possessed  quahties  admirably  adapt- 
ing him  for  this  office — wisdom,  calmness,  common  sense, 
avoidance  of  extremes,  a  balanced  intellect,  and  a  determined 
will. 

The  Epistle  of  James  is  the  first  and  best  homily  extant.  It 
is  not  what  many  would  now  call  a  "  Gospel  sermon"  (but 
neither  is  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount).  It  has  little  doctrinal 
statement,  and  no  consecutive  argument ;  it  is  a  list  of  moral 
duties,  inspirited  by  the  earnestness  with  which  they  are  urged, 
and  beautified  by  the  graphic  and  striking  imagery  in  which 
the  style  is  clothed.  James  is  one  of  the  most  sententious, 
pointed,  and  terse  of  the  New  Testament  authors.  He  reads 
like  a  modern.  The  edges  of  his  sentences  sparkle.  His  words 
are  as  "  goads,  and  as  nails."  He  reminds  us  more  of  Eccle- 
siastes,  than  of  any  other  Scripture  book.  Paul's  short  sen- 
tences never  occur  till  the  close  of  his  Epistles,  and  remind  us 
then  of  hurried  pantings  of  the  heart.  They  are  like  the  post- 
scripts of  lovers.  James's  entire  epistle  is  composed  of  brief, 
glancing  sentences,  discovering  the  extreme  liveliness  and  pier- 
cing directness  of  his  intellect.  Every  word  tells.  How  sharp 
and  efl'ective  are  such  expressions  as — "  When  lust  hath  con- 
ceived, it  bnngeth  forth  sin  ;  and  sin,  when  it  is  finished,  bring- 
f'th  forth  death.  Faith,  if  it  hath  not  works,  is  dead,  being 
alone.  Show  me  thy  faith  without  tliy  works,  and  I  will  show 
thee  my  faith  by  my  works.     Thou  believest  that  there  is  one 


PETER    AXD    JAMES.  2/7 

God ;  thou  doest  well ;  the  devils  also  believe,  and  tremble.  Is 
any  among  you  afflicted  ? — Let  him  pray.  Is  any  merry  ?— Let 
hira  sing  psalms." 

In  one  of  those  sentences  ("'  the  devils  believe,  and  tremble''), 
as  well  as  in  his  quaint  and  powerful  picture  of  the  tongue,  we 
find  that  very  rare  and  somewhat  fearful  gift  of  irony  winding 
and  darkening  into  invective.  What  cool  scorn  and  warm 
horror  meet  in  the  words,  "  believe,  and  tremble  /"  How  for- 
midable does  the  "  little  member"  he  describes  become,  when 
it  is  tipped  with  the  "  fire  of  hell  I"  And  in  what  slow  successive 
thunderous  words  does  he  describe  the  "  wisdom  which  is  not 
from  above,"  as  "  earthly,  sensual,  devilish !"  And  upon  the 
selfish  rich  he  pours  out  a  very  torrent  of  burning  gold,  as  if 
from  the  Lord  of  Sabaoth  himself,  into  whose  ears  the  cries  of 
the  reapers  have  entered. 

In  fine,  although  we  pronounce  James  rather  an  orator  than 
a  poet,  yet  there  do  occur  some  touches  of  genuine  poetic  beaut}^, 
of  which,  in  pursuing  his  swift  rhetorical  way,  he  is  himself 
hardly  conscious.  "  Let  the  rich,"  ho  says,  "  rejoice  in  that  he 
is  made  low^,  because  as  the  flower  of  the  grass,  he  shall  pass 
away."  For  a  moment,  he  follows  its  brief  history :  "  The  sun 
is  no  sooner  risen  with  a  burning  heat,  but  it  withereth  the 
grass,  and  the  flower  thereof  falleth,  and  the  grace  of  the  fashion 
of  it  perisheth  :  so  also  shall  the  rich  man  fade  away  in  his  ways" 
-—"fade  away,"  and  yet  " rejoice," inasmuch  as,  like  the  flower, 
whose  bloom,  savor,  and  pith  have  floated  up  to  swell  the 
broad-blown  lily  of  day,  his  adversity  withers  in  the  prosperity 
of  God.  "What,  again,  is  life?  It  is  even  a  vapor,  that 
appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away."  Such 
flowers,  indeed,  are  transplanted  from  the  prophetic  forests. 
There,  mider  the  proud  cedars,  they  were  overshadowed,  and 
almost  lost ;  here,  they  bloom  alone,  and  are  the  more  lovely, 
that  they  seem  to  grow  amid  the  fragments  of  the  tables,  which 
Moses,  in  his  ire,  strewed  along  the  sides  of  Sinai — divine  rub- 
bish, left,  as  has  not  unfrequently  been,  in  other  senses,  the 
ease,  by  human  wrath,  but  potent  in  its  verv  powder. 


2*78  PETER    AND    JAME^;. 

A  little  common  sense  often  goes  a  great  way  in  a  mystified 
and  hollow  world.  How  mucli  mist  does  one  sunbeam  disperse  ! 
James's  few  sentences — tlie  law  in  powder — thrown  out  with 
decision,  pointed  by  keen  satire,  and  touched  with  terrific  anger, 
have  prevailed  to  destroy  and  disperse  a  thousand  Antinomian 
delusions,  and  to  _  redeem  the  perfect  "  law  of  liberty"  from 
manifold  chai'ges  of  licentiousness.  Even  grant  we,  that,  among 
the  unhallowed  multitude  who  have  sought  to  reduce  the  stan- 
dard of  morals,  Luther,  like  another  Aaron,  may  have  mingled, 
even  he  must  down  before  the  "  Man  with  a  word  and  a  blow," 
the  man  Moses,  impersonated  by  James,  crying  out — as  his 
face's  indignant  crimson  flashes  through  the  glory  which  the 
Divine  presence  had  left  upon  it,  and  his  eye  outbeams  his  face 
and  outruns  his  hurrying  feet,  and  his  arms  make  a  heave-offer- 
ing of  the  fire-v/ritten  tables — "  Wilt  thou  know,  O  vain  man, 
that  faith  without  works  is  dead  ?" 

Earnestness  is  a  quality  as  old  as  the  heart  of  man.  Nor  is 
the  proclamation  of  it,  as  an  essential  and  all-important  element, 
merely  of  yesterday.  It  was  preached — nay,  cursed — into 
Israel's  ears  by  Deborah,  when  she  spake  so  bitterly  of  poor, 
trimming,  tarrying,  neutral  Meroz,  "  which  came  not  forth  to 
the  help  of  the  Lord."  It  was  asked,  in  thunder,  from  Carmel, 
by  Elijah,  as  he  said--"  How  long  halt  ye  between  two 
opinions  ?"  It  was  proclaimed,  through  a  calm  louder  than 
the  thunder,  by  the  Great  Teacher  himself,  as  he  told  the  do- 
cile, well-behaved,  money -loving  weakling,  in  the  Gospel,  and 
in  him,  millions — "  Go,  sell  all  that  thou  hast,  and  take  up  thy 
cross,  and  follow  me."  And  here,  when  faith  in  the  Cross 
itself  was  retiring  to  rest  in  the  upper  rooms  of  speculative 
acquiescence,  or  traditionary  acceptance,  comes  James,  stoutly, 
resisting  the  retreat.  Llis  great  demand  is  "  life,  action,  fruit." 
Roughly,  as  one  awakens  those  who  are  sleeping  amid  flames, 
does  he  shake  the  slumberers,  and  alarm  the  supine.  But  let 
those  who  have  been  taught  by  more  modern  prophets  the  value 
of  earnestness  remember,  that  James  always  admits  the  au- 
thority of  that  faith  whoncf^  he  would  oxppot  virtue  to  spring. 


PETF.R    AND    JAMES.  2*79 

"  Faith  is  dead,  being  alone  ;■'  in  other  words,  it  is  not  the 
Christian  faith  at  all.  That  is  necessarily  a  living,  fruit-bearing 
principle.  And,  strong  as  his  hand  is  to  tear  away  the  subter- 
fuges of  the  hypocrite,  and  bold  as  his  spirit  is  to  denounce 
every  shade  of  inconsistency — every  "  sham"  of  that  day,  and 
although  his  tone  against  oppression  and  oppressors  crashes  up 
into  that  of  the  old  prophets,  and  his  fourth  and  fifth  chapters 
be  in  the  very  mood  of  ISIalachi — yet  the  whole  tenor  of  his 
doctrine,  and  spirit,  and  language,  substantiates  his  first  and 
only  title — "  James,  a  servant  of  God  and  of  the  Lord  Jesusi 
Christy 


CHAPTER    XYI. 

JOHN. 

Thkre  is,  or  was  till  lately,  extant  a  vulgar  Bibliolatry,  which 
would  hardly  admit  of  any  preference  being  given  to  one  Scrip- 
ture writer  over  another,  or  of  any  comparison  being  instituted 
between  its  various  authors.^  This  was  absurd,  even  on  the 
ground  which  the  doctrine  of  mechanical  inspiration  took.  Sup- 
pose that  the  whole  Bible  came  from  God,  in  the  same  way  in 
which  nature  is  derived  from  him ;  yet,  who  ever  was  afraid  of 
preferring  the  Alps  to  the  Apennines,  or  of  comparing  the 
Pacific  with  the  Atlantic  deep  ?  So  comparisons  were  inevi- 
table between  writers  of  such  various  styles  as  Isaiah  and  the 
author  of  Ruth,  the  Psalms  and  the  Historical  Books  ;  and  pref- 
erences to  all  but  the  mere  slaves  of  a  system,  were  as  inevita- 
ble as  comparisons. 

Kow,  we  need  not  be  afraid  to  avow,  that  we  have  our  fa- 
vorites among  Scripture  writers,  and  that  a  leading  favorite 
is  John.  There  was  "  one  disciple  whom  Jesus  loved  ;"  and  we 
plead  guilty  to  loving  the  writer  supremely  too.  It  has  been 
supposed  by  some,  that  there  was  a  certain  resemblance  between 
the  countenance  of  John,  and  that  of  Jesus.  We  figure  the 
same  sweetness  in  the  smile,  the  same  silence  of  ineffable  re- 
pose upon  the  brow,  the  same  mild  luster  in  the  eye.  And,  as 
long  as  John  lived,  he  would  renew  to  those  who  had  known 
the  Savior  the  impressions  made  by  his  transcendent  beauty, 
for  transcendently  beautiful  he  surely  was.  But  the  resem- 
blance extends  to  the  features  of  his  composition,  as  well  as  of 
his  face.     It  seems   Jpsu*?  who   is   still  speaking  to  us.     The 


JOHN.  -  281 

babe-like  simplicity,  the  artlessness,  the  lisping  out  of  the 
loftiest  thoughts,  the  sweet  undertone  of  utterance,  the  warm 
female-like  tenderness  and  love,  along  with  a  certain  divine 
dogmatism,  of  the  Great  Teacher,  are  all  found  in  an  inferior 
measure  in  the  writings  of  his  apostle.  He  has,  too,  a  portion 
of  that  strange  familiarity  with  divine  depths  which  distin- 
guished his  master,  who  speaks  of  them  always  as  if  he  were 
lying  in  his  Father's  bosom.  So  John  seems  perfectly  at  home 
in  heaven,  and  the  stupendous  subjects  and  scenery  thereof. 
He  is  not  like  Paul,  "  caught  up  to  Paradise,"  but  walks  like  a 
native  through  its  blessed  clime.  His  face  is  flushed  with  the 
ardors  of  the  eternal  noon,  and  his  style  wears  the  glow  of  that 
celestial  sunshine.  He  dips  his  pen  in  love — the  pure  and 
fervid  love  of  heaven.  Love-letters  are  his  Epistles — the  mere 
artless  spillings  of  the  heart — such 'tetters  as  Christ  might  have 
written  to  the  family  at  Bethany.  Jesus  is  the  great  theme  of 
John.  His  name  perpetually  occurs ;  nay,  he  thinks  so  often  of 
him,  that  he  sometimes  speaks  of,  without  naming,  him.  Thus, 
"  Beloved,  now  are  we  the  sons  of  God  ;  and  it  doth  not  yet  ap- 
pear what  we  shall  be ;  but  we  know  that,  when  he  shall  appear, 
we  shall  be  like  him."  "  Because  that  for  his  name's  sake  they 
went  forth,  taking  nothing  of  the  Gentiles."  In  his  Epistles, 
occui-s  the  sentence  of  sentences,  "  God  is  love."  Why  is  not 
this  sentence  sown  in  our  gardens  in  living  green  ;  framed 
and  hung  on  the  walls  of  our  nurseries ;  taught  as  the  first 
sounds  to  little  ones  ?  Why  not  call  God  Love  ?  Why  not 
change  the  name  of  our  Deity  ?  Why  not  instruct  children 
to  answer,  when  asked  who  made  you  ?  Love,  the  Father. 
Who  redeems  you  ?  Love,  the  Son.  Who  sanctifies  you  ?  Love, 
the  Holy  Ghost  ?  Surely,  on  some  day  of  balm  did  this  golden 
word  pass  across  the  mind  of  the  apostle,  when,  perhaps,  pon- 
dering on  the  character,  and  recalling  the  face  of  Jesus,  looking 
up  to  the  glowing  sky  and  landscape  of  the  East,  and  feeling 
liis  own  heart  burning  within  him,  he  spread  out  the  spark  in 
his  bosom,  till  it  became  a  flame,  encompassing  the  universe, 
and  the  great  generalization  leapt  from  his  lips — "  God  is  love." 


282  JOHN. 

Complete  as  an  epic,  and  immorial  as  complete,  stands  this 
poem-sentence,  insulated  in  its  own  mild  glory,  and  the  cross 
of  Jesus  is  below. 

Imagination,  properly  speaking,  is  not  found  in  the  Epistles 
of  John.  They  are  full  of  heart,  of  practical  suggestion,  of  in- 
tuitive insight,  and  of  grave,  yet  tender  dignity.  You  see  the 
aged  and  venerable  saint  seated  among  his  spiritual  children, 
and  pouring  out  his  rich  simplicities  of  thought  and  feehng, 
while  a  tear  now  and  then  steals  down  his  cheek.  That  passion 
for  Christ,  which  was  in  John  as  well  as  in  Paul,  appears  in 
the  form  of  tranquil  expectation.  We  shall  soon  "  see  him  as 
he  isy  The  orator  is  seen  as  he  is,  when  he  has  shot  his  soul 
into  his  entire  audience,  and  is  ruling  them  like  himself.  The 
warrior  appears  as  he  is,  when  hfting  up  his  far-seen  finger  of 
command,  and  leading  on  the  charge.  The  poet  is  seen  as  he 
is,  when  the  fine  frenzy  of  inspiration  is  in  his  eye.  So  Jesus 
shall  be  seen  as  he  is,  when  he  comes  garlanded  and  girt  for 
the  judgment ;  and  when,  blessed  thought,  his  people  shall  be 
like  him,  for  the  first  look  of  that  wondrous  face  of  his  shall  com- 
plete and  eternize  the  begun  similitude,  and  the  angelic  hosts, 
perceiving  the  resemblance,  seeing  millions  upon  millions  of  re- 
flected Christs,  shall  take  up  the  cry,  "  Open  ye  the  gates,  that 
the  righteous  nation  may  enter  in." 

In  his  Gospel,  John  takes  a  loftier  and  more  daring  flight. 
He  leaps  at  once  into  the  Emp^T^rean,  and  walks  with  calm, 
majestic  mastery  beside  its  most  awful  gulfs.  How  abruptly  it 
begins !  "  In  the  beginning  was  the  Word,  and  the  Word  was 
with  God,  and  the  Word  was  God."  This  emulates,  evidently, 
the  first  sentence  of  Genesis,  and  ranks  with  it,  and  the  first 
word,  "  God,"  in  the  Hebrews,  as  one  of  the  three  grandest  in- 
troductions in  literature.  Our  minds  are  carried  back  to  the 
silent  and  primeval  abyss.  Over  it  there  is  heard  suddenly  a 
sound,  which  swells  on  and  on,  till  to  its  tune  that  abyss  con- 
ceives, labors,  agonizes,  and  brings  forth  the  universe,  and  the 
harmony  dies  away  in  the  words — "  Tt  is  very  good."  Or,  hear 
a  truf  popt — 


JOHN.  2a3 

"  A  power  and  a  glory  of  silence  lay, 
O'erbroodiug  the  lonely  primeval  day, 
Ere  yet  unwoven  the  vail  of  light, 
Through  which  shineth  forth  the  eternal  might ; 
When  the  Word  on  the  infinite  void  went  forth, 
And  stirred  it  with  pangs  of  a  godlike  birth  ; 
And  forth  sprung  the  twain,  in  which  doth  lie. 
Enfolded  all  being  of  earth  and  sky. 
*  *  *  -jfr  *  ii- 

Then  rested  the  Word,  for  its  work  was  done." 

To  follow  the  history  of  the  "  Omnific  Word" — the  Logos, 
and  darling  thought  of  Plato — till  he  traced  him  entering  into 
a  lowly  stable  in  Bethlehem,  and  wedding  a  village  virgin's 
son,  is  John's  difficult  but  divine  task.  Great,  indeed,  is  the 
mystery  of  godliness,  but  not  too  great  to  be  believed.  The 
center  of  this  creation  is  now  supposed  by  many  to  lie,  not  in 
one  orb  vaster  than  his  fellows,  but  in  some  obscure  point. 
Thus,  the  God  of  it  was  found  in  fashion  as  a  man,  in  the  car- 
penter's son — the  flower  of  man,  and  fellow  of  Jehovah — but 
with  his  glory  disguised  behind  a  robe  of  flesh,  and  with  a 
cross  for  his  death-place.  Who  has  not  at  times  been  impressed 
with  an  intuitive  feeling,  as  he  walked  along  with  a  friend,  of 
the  exact  magnitude  of  his  mind,  and  of  his  true  character, 
which  came  rushing  upon  him,  and  could  not  be  gainsayed  or 
disbelieved  ?  John,  too,  as  he  lay  on  the  bosom  of  the  Savior, 
and  listened  to  his  teaching,  seems  to  have  felt  the  burning  im- 
pression, that  through  those  eyes  looked  Omniscience,  and  that 
below  that  bosom  was  beating  the  very  love  of  God,  and  said, 
"  This  is  the  true  God,  and  Eternal  Life."  "  The  Word  was 
made  flesh,  and  dwelt  among  us  ;  and  we  beheld  his  glory,  the 
glory  as  of  the  only  begotten  of  the  Father,  full  of  grace  and 
truth."  No  mere  logical  deduction  could  have  led  him  to  such 
a  conclusion,  apart  from  his  profound  intuitive  persuasion  ;  and 
that  once  formed,  no  catena  of  ten  thousand  links  could  have 
dragged  him  back  from  it.  "  Flesh  and  blood  hath  not  revealed 
it,  but  ray  Father  which  is  in  heaven." 

Full  to  Christ,  in  his  highest  estate,  from  the  very  beginning 


284  JOHN-. 

of  his  Gospel,  does  this  EvangeHst  point.  I'he  others  com- 
mence with  recounting  his  earthly  ancestry,  or  the  particulars 
of  his  birth.  John  shows  him  at  once  as  the  "  Lord,  high  and 
lifted  up,"  descending  from  this  eminence  to  wed  his  own  body, 
and  to  save  his  people's  souls.  'Tis  the  only  complete  history 
of  Christ.  It  traces  his  connection  with  the  Father,  not  through 
the  blood  of  patriarchs  and  kings,  but  though  the  heavens, 
up  directly  to  Jehovah's  bosom.  How  grand  this  genealogy 
— "  'No  man  hath  seen  God,  at  any  time  ;  the  only  begotten 
Son,  which  is  in  the  bosom  of  the  Father,  he  hath  declared 
him  !"  And  after  announcing  his  true  descent,  he  sets  him- 
self through  the  rest  of  the  book,  as  if  acting  under  the  spell  of 
a  lover's  fascination,  to  record  every  word  which  he  could  catch 
from  those  heavenly  lips,  as  well  as  to  narrate  some  of  the  ten- 
derer and  more  private  incidents  in  the  life  of  the  "  Man  of 
Sorrows." 

To  Samaria's  well,  and  to  the  last  sayings  of  Christ,  we  have 
alluded  in  a  former  chapter.  But  we  can  not  refrain  from  re- 
ferring to  one  or  two  scenes,  exclusively  related  by  John,  of  an 
intensely  poetical  character :  one  is,  the  visit  of  Nicodemus  to 
Jesus  by  night.  Meetings  of  interesting  and  representative 
men,  especially  when  unexpected  and  amid  extraordinary  cir- 
cumstances, become  critical  points  in  the  history  of  mankind. 
Such  was  the  meeting  of  Wallace  and  Bruce :  the  one  repre- 
senting Scotland's  wild  patriotic  valor — the  other,  its  calmer, 
more  collected,  and  regal-seeming  power.  Such  was  that  of 
old  Galileo  and  young  Milton  in  the  dungeon — surely  a  theme 
for  the  noblest  pencil — the  meeting  of  Italy's  old  savant,  and 
England's  young  scholar — the  gray-haired  sage,  each  wi'inkle 
on  his  forehead  the  furrow  of  a  star ;  and  the  "  Lady  of  his 
College,"  with  Comus  curling  in  his  fair  locks,  and  the  dream 
of  Eden  sleeping  on  his  smooth  l)row  ;  while  the  dim  twilight 
of  the  cell,  spotted  by  the  fierce  eyes  of  the  officials,  seemed  the 
age  too  late,  or  too  early,  on  which  both  had  fallen — a  meeting 
like  that  of  Morning,  with  her  one  star,  and  coming  day,  and 
of  Midnif^ht,  with   all  her  melanoholv  maturitv,  and  hosts  of 


JOHN.  '  285 

diruiuibhtid  suns — a  meeting  like  that  of  two  centuries.  And  so 
met,  at  the  dark  and  silent  hour,  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries, 
Mirabeau  and  Marie  Antoinette — the  "  wild  submitted  Titan," 
kissing  her  hand  as  they  parted,  and  saying,  "  Madame,  the 
monarchy  is  saved,"  while,  hark  !  the  echoes  seem  to  catch  the 
words,  and  to  return  them  in  scorn. 

It  is  with  apology  that  we  refer,  upon  the  same  page  with 
this,  to  the  meeting  recorded  in  John.  Yet  its  interest  is  his- 
torical as  well  as  religious.  Nicodemus  represented  the  inquir- 
ing and  dissatisfied  mind  of  Jewry — "  Young  Jerusalem" — 
sick  of  forms  and  quibbles,  and  yet  imable  to  comprehend  as 
yet  a  spiritual  faith  ;  tired  of  the  present,  but  not  ripe  for  the 
future  ;  in  love  with  Christ's  miracles,  but  fearing  his  cross,  and 
not  despising  its  shame.  And  hence,  when  the  evening  fell 
down,  with  a  step  soft  and  silent  as  its  shadows,  he  steals  forth 
to  meet  with,  and  talk  to,  Jesus.  Jesus,  seeing  in  him  the  rep- 
resentative of  a  class — a  class  possessing  many  excellent  quali- 
ties— who  are  sincere,  whose  belief  in  formalities  and  old  saws 
and  shams  is  shaken,  who  are  anxious  inquirers,  but  who 
united  to  these,  weakness  of  will,  timidity  of  disposition,  and  a 
lack  of  profound  spirituality,  and  self-sacrifice — tells  him  in 
effect,  "  Dream  not  that  you  can  get  to  heaven  in  this  tiptoe 
fashion,  that  you  can  always  walk  with  the  night,  in  seeking 
the  day ;  you  must  go  all  my  length,  you  must  walk  with  me 
as  well  as  to  me  ;  you  must  make  a  pubhc  and  prominent 
stand  for  my  cause  ;  and  that  you  may  be  able  to  do  this,  you 
must  undergo  a  thorough  and  vital  change  ;  you  must  become 
a  little  child  ;  you  must  be  born  again  ;  you  must  sink  down 
into  the  cradle  ere  you  can  hope  to  begin  your  ascent  toward 
the  throne." 

How  this  strange  yet  noble  paradox  of  our  religion — the 
most  staggering  of  all  spiritual  truths — must  have  sounded  in 
the  ear  of  Nicodemus,  at  the  dead  hour  of  night,  when  all  else 
was  sleeping,  save  the  stars !  Ah  !  ye  bright  watchers,  and 
holy  ones,  ye  have  many  voices,  many  words  and  languages  are 
yours,  but  ye  can  not  utter  such  a  truth  as  this—"  Ye  must  be 


286  JOHN. 

born  again  !"  Tremble  on,  then,  and  remain  silent,  and  allow 
him  to  speak  who  can  ! 

There  are  modern  Nicodemuses,  who  hold  stolen  interviews 
with  Christ,  and  cast  stolen  glances  at  Christianity,  and  yet 
will  not  walk  right  onward  with  him,  nor  fully  embrace  his 
faith.  These  are  of  various  classes  ;  but  we  may  here  specify 
two.  There  are  those,  first,  who,  like  Nicodemus,  believe  the 
Savior's  miracles,  but  do  not  feel  the  deep  radical  spirituality 
of  his  religion.  Such  men  do  desperate  battle  for  the  external 
evidence,  but  are  strangers  to  the  living  power.  To  them  the 
words,  "  Ye  must  be  born  again,"  sound  meaningless,  empty, 
and  strange.  Others,  again,  a  class  numerous  at  present,  are 
not  in  sympathy  with  the  miraculous  part  of  Christianity, 
scarcely  believe  in  it,  have,  nevertheless,  a  liking  for  its  spiritual 
and  loftier  aspects,  but  lothe  the  humility  and  childlike  sub- 
mission which  it  requires  of  its  votaries.  They  would  see — 
what  would  they  not  see  ?  if  they  would  stoop  ;  but  stoop  they 
will  not.  Its  spirit,  in  other  words,  is  not  theirs  ;  and,  there- 
fore, they  behold  Christ  only  at  and  through  the  night.  If 
they  were  but,  like  Nicodemus,  to  wait  and  hear  the  words  of 
Jesus,  till  the  day  should  break  and  all  the  shadows  should  flee 
away  !  For  he  had,  after  all,  a  noble  destiny.  He  followed 
Christ  afar  oflf;  but  he  followed  him  to  the  last.  He  was  true 
to  his  dust.  He,  with  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  took  him  down 
from  the  Cross  ;  and  both  seem  now  chiseled  supporters  to  his 
drooping  head,  and  chiseled  mourners  over  his  lonely  grave. 
Not  men  to  support  his  living  cause  ;  they  were  marble  to  bend 
over,  adorn,  and  defend  his  dead  body. 

The  scene  between  Jesus,  the  blind  man,  and  the  Jews,  re- 
lated in  the  9th  chapter,  is  not  only  remarkable,  as  Paley  no- 
tices, for  its  air  of  truth,  but  for  its  dramatic  interest.  The 
j)lay  of  character  with  character — the  manner  in  which  the  pe- 
culiarities of  each  are  supported — the  retorts  of  the  blind  man, 
so  keen-witted  and  caustic — the  undulations  of  the  little  story 
— and  the  close  in  the  conversion  of  the  poor  man,  all  prove 
it  a  leaf  from  the  book  of  life,  but  plucked  and  arranged  by  the 


JOHN.  287 

hand  of  a  master  and  an  eye-witness.  Equally  natural,  and  ten- 
derer far,  is  the  history  of  Lazarus  and  his  sisters.  We  say 
not,  with  an  eminent  living  divine,  that  Jesus  loved  Mary  with 
the  pure  and  peculiar  aftection  which  the  word  generally  im- 
plies ;  but  certainly  his  heart  regarded  the  circle  of  Bethany,  of 
which  she  was  one,  with  especial  interest.  Lazarus  seems  to 
have  been  an  innocent — not  iu  weakness,  perhaps,  but  in  gen- 
tleness ;  one  of  those  living  pauses  in  the  music  of  man  whom 
it  is  pleasant  and  rare  to  encounter.  In  that  house,  the  Savior 
felt  himself,  more  than  anywhere  else,  at  rest ;  it  was  an  arbor 
on  his  hill  Difficulty,  where  he  loved  well  to  be,  and  where  the 
three  indwellers  seemed  to  perform  various  parts  in  suiting  and 
soothing  his  wide  nature — Martha  ministering  to  his  necessi- 
ties, Mary  sitting  at  his  feet,  and  Lazarus  forming  his  mild  and 
shorn  shadow.  The  ministering  spirit,  the  listening  disciple, 
and  the  quiet  reflector  of  his  glory,  were  all  there. 

Into  this  loving  circle,  the  entrance  of  Jesus  did  not  prevent 
that  of  death.  And  who  needs  to  be  reminded  of  the  melting 
circumstances  of  that  death — of  the  slow  approach  of  the  Sav- 
ior— of  the  meeting  with  Martha — of  Mary  casting  herself 
down  in  her  tears  before  him,  tears  which  seem  to  accuse  his 
delay  as  the  cause  of  her  brother's  death — of  Christ's  own 
troubled  spirit  and  weeping  eyes — or  of  the  brief,  but  victorious 
duel  with  death,  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  at  the  close  of  which 
the  dead-alive  came  forth,  and  the  yawn  of  the  grave  behind 
seemed  that  of  the  disappointment  of  the  last  enemy  himself, 
and  the  light  of  returning  life  in  Lazarus's  eye,  the  first  spark  of 
the  general  resurrection  ?  "  Jesus  wept."  It  is  the  shortest 
sentence  in  the  Bible.  But  sooner  than  have  wanted  that  little 
sentence,  should  we  have  consented  that  all  books  but  the  Bible 
should  have  perished — that  the  entire  glories  of  an  earthly  lit- 
erature had  sunk  into  the  grave  of  forgetful ness.  For  the  tears 
of  the  Divine  Man  are  links  binding  us  immediately  to  the 
throne  of  God,  and  the  rainbow  which  is  around  it. 

John,  indeed,  seems  to  have  set  himself  to  preserve  all  the 
tearful  passages  which  trickle  down  upon  the  history  of  Jesus. 


288  JOHN. 

He  was  a  gatherer  of  tears ;  and  to  him  we  owe  such  rich  glean- 
ings as  the  scene  between  himself,  Jesus,  and  Mary,  his  mother, 
at  the  cross — the  interview  between  Christ  and  Mary  Magda- 
lene, when  the  one  word  "Mary,"  uttered  in  his  old  tones, 
opened  the  way  to  her  heart,  and  made  her  feel  that  her  Lord 
was  the  same  to-day  as  he  had  been  yesterday — and  the  cross- 
questioning  of  Simon,  son  of  Jonas,  carried  on  till  he  was 
grieved,  and  cried,  "  Lord,  thou  knowest  all  things ;  thou  know- 
est  that  I  love  thee." 

Thus  is  the  Gospel  of  John — the  Odyssey  of  Christ's  mar- 
velous story — calmer,  softer,  and  higher  than  the  other  three. 
The  first  three  leave  Christ  with  the  halo  of  heaven  around 
his  head ;  while  this  deepens,  perhaps,  the  grandeur  of  the 
Ascension,  by  dropping  the  vail  over  it.  And  in  what  a  noble 
gasconade  does  the  warm-hearted  apostle  close  his  narrative ! 
"  There  are  also  many  other  things  which  Jesus  did,  the  which, 
if  they  should  be  written  every  one,  I  suppose  that  even  the 
world  itself  could  not  contain  the  books  that  should  be  written." 
A  gasconade  this,  indeed,  of  a  very  pardonable  sort,  if  it  refer 
only  to  the  literal  deeds  which  our  short-lived  Savior  performed, 
or  to  the  literal  words  of  a  three  years'  ministry.  But  it  be- 
comes htcally  true,  if  we  look  to  the  spiritual  import  and 
manifold  influences  of  that  life  and  that  gospel.  These  have 
overflowed  earth,  and  spilled  their  golden  drops  throughout  the 
universe.  That  "  story  of  a  life"  has  passed  already  into  almost 
every  language,  and  into  innumerable  miUions  of  hearts.  Al- 
ready men,  amid  trackless  wildernesses,  in  every  region  of  the 
world,  are  blessing  their  bread  and  their  water  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  or  looking  up  in  silent  worship,  as  they 
see  the  cross  of  the  south  at  midnight,  bending  in  the  glim- 
mering desert  of  the  tro})ical  air.  Nay,  as  astronomers  tell  us, 
that  there  is  an  era  at  hand  when  that  splendid  Constellation 
shall  be  seen  in  our  hemisphere,  as  well  as  in  the  south,  and 
shall  peacefully  shine  down  the  glories  of  Arcturus  and  Orion ; 
so  there  is  a  day  coming  when  all  nations  shall  call  Christ 
blessed,  and  the  whole  earth  bo  Tilled  with   his  glory.     It  can 


JOHK.  289 

be  done,  for  it  is  in  God's  power ;  it  shall  be  done,  for  it  is  in 
his  prophecy. 

That  this  tender-hearted  and  babe-like  apostle  should  have 
become  the  seer  of  the  dreadful  splendors  of  the  Apocalypse — 
that  its  crown  of  fire  should  be  seen  sitting  on  the  head  of  the 
author  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Elect  Lady,  may  seem  strange,  and 
has,  along  with  other  difficulties,  induced  many  to  deny  to  John 
the  authorship  of  this  mystic  volume.  For  a  resolution  of  the 
external  difficulties,  we  refer  our  readers  to  the  critical  works 
which  abound.  The  intellectual  difficulty  does  not  seem  to 
us  very  formidable.  The  Apocalypse  differs  not  more  widely 
from  the  epistles,  than  Coleridge's  "  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mar- 
iner," from  his  "  Fears  in  Solitude ;"  or,  than  Shelley's  "  Pro- 
metheus Unbound,"  from  his  "  Stanzas  written  in  Dejection, 
near  Naples."  Often  authors  seem  to  rise  or  to  sink  into  spheres 
quite  alien,  and  afar  from  the  common  dwelling-place  of  their 
genius.  Their  style  and  language  alter.  They  are  caught 
above  themselves,  like  "  the  swift  Ezekiel,  by  his  lock  of  hair ;" 
or  they  shp  momentarily  down  into  abysses  of  strange  bathos. 
So  with  John.  In  a  desert  island,  with  his  mind  thrown  out, 
by  this  very  sohtude,  into  the  obscure  prospects  of  the  future 
— with  the  "  visions  of  God"  bowing  their  burden  upon  his 
soul — what  wonder  that  his  language  should  change,  his  figures 
mix,  and  his  spirit  even  and  genius  undergo  transfiguration  ? 

Nay,  we  fancy  a  peculiar  beauty  in  this  selection  of  John. 
Who  has  not  seen  a  child  astray  in  a  populous  city,  shielded 
by  her  very  weakness,  safe,  as  if  seated  by  her  mother's  knee  1 
Beautiful  and  melting,  to  grandeur,  this  spectacle ;  but  finer 
still  that  of  John,  lost  and  safe  in  his  simplicity  and  innocence, 
amid  the  bursting  vials,  slow-opening  seals,  careering  chariots, 
conflicting  multitudes,  and  cataracts  of  fire  and  blood,  which 
fill  this  transcendent  vision  !  The  helplessness  of  the  seer  adds 
to  the  greatness  of  the  spectacle ;  and  we  feel  this  is  no  elabo- 
rate work  of  a  visionary  artist — it  is  the  mere  transcript  of  a 
sight  which  came  upon  his  soul ;  and  no  lamb  ever  looked  with 
more  innocent,  fearless  unconsciousness,  upon  an  eclipse  passing 

M 


290  J0HI5'. 

over  his  glen,  than  does  John  regard  the  strange  terrors  and 
tumultuating  glories  of  the  Apocalypse.  Once,  indeed,  he  "  foils 
down  as  dead ;"  but  his  general  attitude  is  that  of  quiet,  though 
rapt  reception. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  tumultuating  glory  that  of  the  Eevelation. 
He  who  has  watched  a  thunder-storm  half-formed,  or  a  bright 
but  cloudy  sunset,  must  have  observed,  with  the  author  of 
the  "  Lights  and  Shadows,"  "  a  show  of  storm,  yet  feeling  of 
calm,  over  all  that  tumultuous  yet  settled  world  of  cloud."  It 
seemed  a  tempest  of  darkness  or  of  light  arrested  in  mid  career. 
An  image  of  the  Apocalypse !  It  is  a  hubbub  of  magnificence 
melting  into  beauty,  and  of  beauty  soaring  into  sublimity — of 
terror,  change,  victory,  defeat,  shame,  and  glory,  agonies,  and 
ecstasies,  chasing  each  other  over  a  space  beneath  ^vhich  hell 
yawns,  above  which  heaven  opens,  and  around  which  earth  now 
lightens  with  the  glory  of  the  one,  and  now  darkens  with  the 
uprising  smoke  of  the  other.  Noises,  too,  there  are  ;  the  sound 
of  chariots  running  to  battle  ;  the  opening  of  doors  in  heaven,  as 
if  answering  the  revolving  portals  of  the  pit ;  rejoicings  heard 
in  heaven,  waihngs  arising  from  hell ;  now  the  speech  of  drag- 
ons, now  the  voice  of  lambs,  and  anon  the  roar  of  lions  ;  great 
multitudes  speaking,  earthquakes  crashing,  trumpets  sounding, 
thunders  lifting  up  their  voices — above  all  this,  heard  at  inter- 
vals, the  New  Song  from  the  lips  of  the  redeemed,  amid  it, 
coming  up,  the  thin  and  thrilhng  cry  of  the  "  souls  under  the 
nltar ;"  and  behind  it,  and  closing  the  vision,  the  united  halle- 
lujah of  earth  and  heaven. 

The  book  might  thus  almost  be  termed  a  spiritual  oratorio, 
ready  for  the  transcription  of  a  Handel  or  a  Haydn,  and  surely 
supplying  a  subject  equal  to  "  Samson,"  the  "  Creation,"  or  the 
"  Messiah."  But  where  now  the  genius  able  to  play  it  off,  in 
all  its  variety  and  compass  ?  And  where  the  audience  who 
would  bear  its  linked,  and  swelling,  and  interchanging,  and 
long-protracted  harmonies  ?  Music  has  echoed  divinely  the 
divine  words — "  Let  there  be  light" — and  rolled  out  in  thunder- 
surges  the  darkness  of  the  crucifixion,  and  made  the  bhndness 


JOHN.  291 

of  the  Hebrew  Hercules  "  darkness  audible  ;"  but  it  has  yet  a 
greater  task  to  do,  in  incarnating  in  sound  the  dumb  and  dread- 
ful soul  of  music  sleeping  in  the  Apocalypse. 

But  the  question  may  here  arise — to  what  order  of  poems  does 
the  Apocalypse  belong — if,  indeed,  it  be  a  poem  at  all  ?  We 
have  read  much  controversy  as  to  its  poetical  character  and 
form.  On  the  one  hand,  it  has  been  contended,  that  its  struc- 
ture, and  the  frequent  occurrence  of  parallehsms,  constitute  it 
entirely  a  poem  ;  while  it  is  maintained,  on  the  other,  that, 
while  poetical  passages  occur,  its  general  cast  is  symbolical 
rather  than  poetical,  and  itself  no  more  a  poem  than  the  Gos- 
pels. AYe  are  mistaken  if  the  theory  propounded  in  the  third 
chapter  do  not  embrace  and  reconcile  both  those  opposite  views. 
There,  we  maintained  that  Scripture  was  composed,  partly  of 
poetic  statement  and  partly  of  poetic  song — the  former  includ- 
ing in  it,  too,  the  expression  of  symbols,  which,  however  plainly 
stated,  are  poetical  in  the  truths  they  shadow,  as  well  as  in  the 
shadows  themselves.  This  definition,  we  think,  includes  the 
■whole  Apocalypse.  AYe  have,  first,  in  it  the  general  dogmatic 
or  hortatory  matter  of  the  three  commencing  chapters,  which, 
though  full  of  figure,  has  no  rhythmical  rise  or  melody ;  sec- 
ondly, the  symbols  of  the  temple  and  its  furniture,  the  seals, 
beasts,  &c. ;  thirdly,  the  songs  and  ascriptions  of  thanksgiving 
sprinkled  throughout ;  and,  fourthly,  the  great  story,  or  plot, 
which  winds  its  way  amid  ail  those  strange  and  varied  elements. 
Thus,  all  is  poetical  in  essence,  but  part  only  poetical  in  form. 
The  whole  is  a  poem,  i.  e.,  a  creation ;  but  a  creation  like  God's, 
containing  portions  of  more  and  of  less  intensity  and  sweetness. 
The  difference  between  it  and  the  Gospels  is  chiefly,  that  they 
.8,re  professedly  histories,  with  fictitious  and  rhythmical  parts ; 
the  Apocalypse  professedly  a  vision,  with  much  in  it  that  must 
be  taken  hcerally,  and  with  a  profound  meaning  running  through 
all  its  symbols  and  songs.  Though  a  poem,  it  is  not  the  less 
essentially^  though  it  is  the  less  literally^  true. 

But  to  what  species  of  poem  does  it  belong  ?  By  Eichhorn 
and  others,  it  is,  on  account  of  its  changing  actors,  shifting 


292  JOHN-. 

scenes,  and  tlie  presence  of  a  chorus,  ranked  with  the  drama. 
Stuart  calls  it  an  epopee  ;  others  class  it  with  lyric  poecQs.  We 
are  not  disposed  to  coincide  entirely  with  any  of  those  opinions. 
As  well  call  a  series  of  dissolving  views,  with  the  music  to  which 
they  dissolve  or  enter,  a  regular  drama,  with  a  regular  chorus, 
as  the  Apocalypse.  A  poetic  recital  of  a  poetic  story  it  is  ;  but 
both  the  story  and  the  recital  are  far  from  regular.  Lyrics 
ring  in  it,  hke  bells  amid  a  midnight  conflagration  ;  but,  as  a 
whole,  it  is  narrative.  Shall  we  then  say  of  it  merely — "  I  saw 
a  great  tumult,  and  knew  not  what  it  was  ?"  Or  shall  we  call 
it  a  poem-mystery,  acknowledging  no  rules,  including  all  styles 
and  all  forms,  and  gathering  all  diversified  elements  into  one 
glorious,  terrible,  nondescript  composite?  Has  it  not  unwit- 
tingly painted  its  own  image  in  one  of  those  locusts,  which  it 
describes  riding  over  the  earth  ?  It  is,  in  its  warlike  genius, 
like  "  unto  a  horse  prepared  for  the  battle."  It  wears  on  its 
head  a  crown  of  gold — the  gold  of  towering  imagery.  Its  pier- 
cing intuition  makes  its  "  face  as  the  face  of  man,  and  its  teeth 
as  the  teeth  of  a  lion."  Mystery,  like  the  "  hair  of  woman," 
floats  around  it,  and  hardens  into  a  "  breastplate  of  iron"  over 
its  breast.  Its  "  tail  stings  like  a  scorpion,"  in  the  words — "If 
any  man  shall  take  away  from  the  words  of  the  book  of  this 
prophecy,  God  shall  take  away  his  part  from  the  book  of  life, 
and  out  of  the  holy  city."  And  its  rapid  and  rushing  elo- 
quence is  "  like  the  sound  of  chariots — of  many  horses  running 
to  battle."  Here,  there  may  be  fancy  in  our  use  of  the  sym- 
bols, but  the  characteristics  thus  symbolized  are  realities. 

How  wonderful  the  mere  outline  of  this  book  !     The  stage, 
a  solitary  island, — 

"  Placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  main ;" 

the  sole  spectator,  a  gray-haired  apostle  of  Jesus,  who  once  lay 
on  his  breast,  but  is  now  alone  in  the  world  ;  the  time,  the 
Lord's-day,  acquiring  a  deeper  sacredness  from  the  surrounding 
solitude  and  silence  of  nature  ;  the  appearance  of  the  Universal 
Bishop,  gold-girt,  with  head  and  hairs  white  as  snow,  flaming 


JOHN.  293 

eyes,  feet  like  burning  brass,  voice  as  the  sound  of  many- 
waters,  the  seven  stars  in  his  right  hand,  and  walking  through 
the  midst  of  the  seven  golden  candlesticks ;  his  charges  to  his 
churches  so  simple,  affectionate,  and  awful ;  the  opening  of  a 
door  in  heaven  ;  the  throne,  rainbow-surrounded,  fringed  by 
the  seven  lamps,  and  seeing  its  shadow  in  the  sea  of  glass, 
mingled  with  fire ;  the  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah  opening  the 
seals  ;  the  coming  forth  of  the  giant  steeds — one  white  as  the 
milky  banner  of  the  Cross,  another  red  as  blood — a  third  black, 
and  with  a  rider  having  a  pair  of  balances  in  his  hand — a  fourth 
pale,  and  mounted  by  death ;  the  cry  of  the  souls  under  the 
altar  ;  the  opening  of  the  sixth  seal ;  the  four  angels  standing 
on  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  and  blowing  their  blasts  over 
a  silent  world  ;  the  sealing  of  the  tribes ;  the  great  multitude 
standing  before  the  Lamb  ;  the  volcano  cast,  like  a  spark,  into 
the  sea  ;  the  opening  of  the  bottomless  pit ;  the  emergence  of 
tliose  fearful  hybrids  of  hell — the  scorpion  locusts,  with  Apollyon 
as  their  king ;  the  unwritten  words  of  the  seven  thunders ;  the 
prophesying,  and  death,  and  resurrection  of  the  two  witnesses  ; 
the  woman  clothed  with  the  sun  ;  that  other  woman,  drunk  and 
drenched  in  holy  blood ;  the  uprising  of  the  twin  beasts  of 
crowned  blasphemy  ;  the  Lamb  and  his  company  on  the  Mount 
Zion ;  the  angel  flying  through  the  midst  of  heaven,  with  the 
Gospel  in  his  mouth ;  the  man  on  the  white  cloud,  with  the 
gold  crown  on  his  head,  and  the  sharp  sickle  in  his  hand  ;  the 
reaping  of  the  harvest  of  the  earth  ;  the  vintage  of  blood  ;  the 
coming  forth  from  the  smoke  of  the  glory  of  God — of  the  seven 
angels,  with  the  seven  last  plagues,  clothed  with  linen,  girded 
with  virgin  gold,  and  holding,  with  hands  unharmed  and  un- 
trembling,  the  vials  full  of  the  wrath  of  God — one  for  the  earth 
— one  for  the  sea — one  for  the  fountains  of  waters — one  for  the 
sun,  to  feed  his  old  flame  into  tenfold  fierceness — one  for  the 
seat  of  the  beast — one  for  the  Euphrates — and  one  for  the  fire- 
tormented  and  earthquake-listening  air  ;  the  fall  of  the  great 
city  Babylon  ;  the  preparations  for  the  battle  of  Armageddon ; 
the  advent  of  the  Captain  of  the  holy  host ;  the  battle ;  the  rout 


294  JOHN. 

of  the  beast,  and  the  false  prophet  driven  back  upon  the  lake  of 
fire ;  the  binding  of  Satan  ;  the  reign  of  Christ  and  his  saints  ; 
the  final  assault  of  the  enemy,  Gog  and  Magog,  upon  the 
camp  and  the  holy  city  ;  their  discomfiture  ;  the  uprising,  be- 
hind it,  of  the  great  white  throne  ;  and  the  ultimate  and  ever- 
lasting "Bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky" — such  are  the  main 
constituents  of  this  prodigious  and  unearthly  poem,  the  Apoc- 
alypse, or  Revelation  of  Jesus  Christ. 

But  what  saith  this  Scripture  ?  of  what  is  this  the  ciphered 
story  ?  "  Who  shall  open  this  book,  and  loose  the  seals  there- 
of?" We  seem  to  see  ten  thousand  attenuated  forms,  and  pale 
and  eager  countenances,  hanging  over,  and  beseeching  its  ob- 
stinate oracle.  We  remember  the  circle  of  books  which  have,  in 
the  course  of  ages,  slowly  gathered  around  it,  like  planets  around 
the  sun,  in  vain,  for  how  can  planets  add  to  the  clearness  of  their 
central  luminary  ?  We  remember  the  fact,  that  many  strong 
spirits,  such  as  Calvin  and  Luther,  have  shrunk  from  the  task 
of  its  explication,  and  that  Robert  Hall  is  reported  to  have  said, 
when  asked  to  undertake  it,  "  Do  you  wish  me  in  my  grave  ?" 
We  remember  that  the  explanations  hitherto  given  constitute 
a  very  chaos  of  contradictions,  and  remind  us  of  the 

"  Eternal  anarchy,  amid  the  noise 
Of  endless  wars,  and  by  confusion  stand. 
For  hot,  cold,  moist,  and  dry,  four  champions  fierce, 
Strive  here  for  mast'ry,  and  to  battle  bring 
Their  embryon  atoms  ;  they  around  the  flag 
Of  each  his  faction  in  their  several  clans, 
Light  arm'd,  or  heavy,  sharp,  smooth,  sioift,  or  sloic, 
Swarm  populous." 

So, that  the  question  still  recui-s,  "  Who  shall  open  the  book, 
and  loose  the  seals  thereof?" 

Sin,  the  sorceress,  kept  the  key  of  hell.  Perhaps  to  Time, 
the  truth-teller,  has  been  intrusted  the  key  of  this  chaos ;  or, 
perhaps  some  angel-genius,  mightier  still  than  Mede,  or  Elliott, 
or  Croly,  may  yet  be  seen  speeding,  "  with  a  key  in  his  hand," 


JOHiT.  295 

to  open  this  surpassing  problem,  and  with  "  a  great  chain,"  to 
bind  its  conflicting  interpreters.  Our  notion  rather  is,  that  the 
fall  solution  is  reserved  for  the  second  coming  of  Christ ;  that 
he  alone  possesses  the  key  to  its  mystery,  who  holds,  also, 
the  keys  of  Hades  and  of  death ;  and  that  over  this  hitherto 
inscrutable  volume,  as  over  so  many  others,  the  song  shall  be 
sung,  "  Thou,  the  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah,  art  worthy  to  take 
the  book,  and  to  open  the  seals  thereof." 

We  can  not  close  the  Apocalypse,  without  wondering  at  its 
singular  history.  An  island  dream,  despised  at  first  by  many, 
as  we  would  have  despised  that  of  a  seer  of  Mull  or  Benbecula, 
admitted  with  difficulty  into  the  canon,  has  foretold  and  outlived 
dynasties — made  Popes  tremble  and  toss  upon  their  midnight 
beds — made  conquerors  pale,  as  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw, 
their  own  achievements  traced  along  its  mysterious  page,  and 
their  own  bloody  seas  anticipated — fired  the  muse  of  the 
proudest  poets,  and  the  pencil  of  the  most  gifted  artists — 
and  drawn,  as  students  and  admirers,  around  its  cloudy  center, 
the  doctors,  and  theologians,  and  philosophers  of  half  the 
world.  And,  most  wonderful  of  all,  it  has  kept  its  secret — it 
has  baffled  all  inquirers,  and  continues  "  shrouded  and  folded 
up,"  like  a  ghost  in  its  own  formless  shades,  ranking  thus, 
either  with  the  dreams  of  mere  madness,  and  forming  a  silent 
but  tremendous  satire  on  a  world  of  fools,  who  have  consented 
to  beheve  and  to  examine  it  f  01%  as  we  believe,  wdth  those  grand 
enigmas  of  Nature,  Providence,  and  Faith,  which  can  only  be 
stated,  and  can  only  be  solved,  by  God  himself. 


CHAPT  ER    XVII. 

COMPARATIVE    ESTIMATE,   INFLUENCES,  AND   EFFECTS 
OF  SCRIPTURE  POETRY. 

This  would  demand  a  volume,  instead  of  a  chapter,  inas- 
mucli  as  the  influences  of  Scripture  poetry  slide  away  into  the 
influences  of  Scripture  itself.  But  our  purpose  is  merely,  first, 
to  expand  somewhat  our  general  statements  in  the  Introduction, 
as  to  the  superiority  of  the  Bible  as  a  book ;  and  then,  secondly, 
to  point  out  some  of  the  deep  effects  it  has  had  upon  the  mind 
and  the  literature  of  the  world. 

To  make  a  comparative  estimate  of  Scripture  poetry  is  not  a 
complicated  task,  since  the  superiority  of  the  Bible  poets  to  the 
mass  of  even  men  of  true  genius,  will  not  be  disputed.  Like 
flies  dispersed  by  an  eagle's  wing,  there  are  brushed  away  be- 
fore them  all  brilliant  triflers,  elegant  simulators,  men  who 
"  play  well  upon  an  instrument,"  and  who  have  found  that  in- 
strument in  the  lyre — who  have  HUrned  to  common  uses  the 
aeroHte  which  has  fallen  at  their  door  from  heaven,  and  "  lightly 
esteemed"  the  httle,  but  genuine  and  God-given,  power  which 
is  their  all.  These,  too,  have  a  place  and  a  name  of  their  own ; 
but  the  Anacreons,  the  Hafizs,  the  Catulli,  and  the  Moores, 
must  flutter  aside  from  the  "  terribil  vm"  of  Moses  and  David. 
So,  too,  must  depart  the  Sauls,  and  Balaams,  and  Simon  Magi 
— such  as  Byron — whom  the  power  lifted  up  as  it  passed,  con- 
torted into  a  fearful  harmony,  and  went  on  its  way,  leaving 
them  broken  and  defiled  in  the  dust.  Such  are  among  Israel, 
but  not  of  it — its  hope,  its  God,  are  not  theirs  ;  and  even  when 
the  language  of  Canaan  is  on  their  lips,  it  sounds  dreary  and 


EFFECTS    OF    SCRIPTURE   POETRY.  297 

strange,  as  a  song  of  joy  from  a  broken-hearted  wanderer  upon 
the  midnight  streets. 

But  others  there  are,  who  retire  from  the  field  with  more  re- 
luctance— nay,  who  are  disposed  to  dispute  the  Hebrew  pre- 
eminence. These  consist  both  of  early  and  of  modern  singers. 
Among  early  poets,  may  be  ranked,  not  only  Homer  and 
Eschylus,  but  the  Vedas  of  India,  the  poems  of  Kalidasa  and 
Firdusi,  Sadi  and  Asmai,  as  well  as  the  countless  fragments  of 
Scandinavian  and  Celtic  song.  Of  many  of  such  poems,  it  is 
enough  to  say,  that  their  beauties  are  bedded  amid  "  continents 
of  mud" — mud,  too,  lashed  and  maddened  into  explosions  of 
fanatical  folly ;  and  that  partly  through  this  environment,  and 
partly  through  the  inferiority  of  their  poetic  power,  they  have 
not,  like  the  poetry  of  the  Hebrews,  naturalized  themselves 
among  modern  civilized  nations. 

While  the  faith,  which  they  have  set  to  song,  has  seemed 
repulsive  and  monstrous,  the  song  itself  is  broken,  turgid,  and 
unequal,  compared  to  the  great  Psalms  and  Prophecies  of  Is- 
rael. Humboldt  indicates  the  superiority  of  Hebrew  poetry, 
and  the  cause  of  it,  when  he  says,  "  It  is  characteristic  of  it,  that, 
as  a  reflex  of  monotheism,  it  always  embraces  the  whole  world 
in  its  unity,  comprehending  the  life  of  the  terrestrial  globe,  as 
well  as  the  shining  regions  of  space.  It  dwells  less  on  details 
of  phenomena,  and  loves  to  contemplate  great  masses.  Na- 
ture is  portrayed,  not  as  self-subsisting  or  glorious  in  her  own 
beauty,  but  ever  in  relation  to  a  higher,  an  overruling,  a  s^^irit- 
ual  power." 

"VVe  are  willing  to  stake  the  supremacy  of  the  Hebrew  Bards 
over  all  early  singers,  upon  this  ground  alone — their  method  of 
contemplating  nature  in  its  relation  to  God. 

There  are  three  methods  of  contemplating  the  universe.  These 
are  the  material,  the  shadowy,  and  the  mediatorial.  The  ma- 
terialist looks  upon  it  as  the  only  reality.  It  is  a  vast  solid  fact, 
forever  burning  and  rolling  around,  below,  and  above  him. 
■  The  idealist,  on  the  contrary,  regards  it  as  a  shadow,  a  mode  of 
,  mind,  the  infinite  projection  of  his  own  thought.     The  man  who 


'29'^  COMPARATIVE    ESTIMATE,    INFLUENCES, 

stands  between  the  two  extremes,  looks  on  nature  as  a  great,  but 
not  ultimate  or  everlasting,  scheme  of  mediation  or  compromise 
between  pure  and  absolute  spirit  and  the  incarnate  soul  of  man. 
To  the  materialist,  there  is  an  altar,  star-lighted,  heaven-high, 
but  no  God.  To  the  idealist,  there  is  a  God,  but  no  altar.  He 
who  holds  the  theory  of  mediation,  has  the  Great  Spirit  as  his 
God,  and  the  mii verse  as  the  altar  on  which  he  presents  the  gift 
of  his  worship  or  poetic  praise. 

It  must  be  obvious  at  once,  which  of  those  three  views  of 
nature  is  the  most  poetical.  It  is  surely  that  which  keeps  the 
two  principles  of  spirit  and  matter  unconfounded — preserves  in 
their  proper  relations  the  soul  and  the  body  of  things — God 
within,  and  without  the  garment  by  which,  in  Goethe's  grand 
thought,  "  we  see  him  by."  While  one  sect  deify,  and  another 
destroy  matter,  the  third  impregnate,  without  identifying,  it 
with  the  divine  presence. 

The  notions  suggested  by  this  view,  are  exceedingly  compre- 
hensive and  magnificent.  Nature,  to  the  poet's  eye,  becomes  "  a 
great  sheet  let  down  from  God  out  of  heaven,"  and  in  which 
there  is  no  object'  "  common  or  unclean."  The  purpose  and  the 
Being  above  cast  a  greatness  over  the  pettiest  or  barest  objects. 
Every  thing  becomes  valuable  when  looked  upon  as  a  communi- 
cation from  God,  imperfect  only  from  the  nature  of  the  mate- 
rial used.  What  otherwise  might  have  been  concluded  discords, 
now  appear  only  undertones  in  the  divine  voice  ;  thorns  and 
thistles  spring  above  the  primeval  curse,  while  the  "  meanest 
flower  that  blows"  gives  "  thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep 
for  tears."  The  creation  is  neither  unduly  exalted  nor  con- 
temptuously trampled  under  foot,  but  maintains  its  dignified 
position  as  an  embassador  from  the  Divine  King.  The  glory 
of  something  far  beyond  association — that  of  a  divine  and  per- 
petual presence — is  shed  over  all  things.  Objects  the  most 
diverse — the  cradle  of  the  child,  the  wet  hole  of  the  scorpion, 
the  bed  of  the  corpse,  and  the  lair  of  the  earthquake,  the  nest  of 
the  lark,  and  the  crag  on  which  sits,  half-asleep,  the  dark  vul- 
ture digesting  blood — are  all  clothed  in  a  light,  the  same  in  kind, 


AND  EFFECTS  OF  SCRIPTURE  POETRY.         299 

though  varying  in  degree — "The  light  which  never  was  on 
sea  or  shore." 

But  while  the  great  and  the  infinite  are  thus  connected  with 
the  little  and  the  finite,  the  subordination  of  the  latter  to  the 
former  is  alwaj-s  maintained.  The  most  magnificent  objects  in 
nature  are  but  the  mirrors  to  God's  face — the  scaffolding  to  his 
future  purposes ;  and,  like  mirrors,  are  to  wax  dim,  and,  like 
scaffolding,  to  be  removed.  The  great  sheet  is  to  be  received 
up  again  into  heaven.  The  heavens  and  the  earth  are  to  pass 
away,  and  to  be  succeeded,  if  not  by  a  purely  mental  economy, 
yet  by  one  of  a  more  spiritual  materialism,  compared  to  which 
the  former  shall  no  more  be  remembered,  neither  come  into 
mind.  Those  frightful  and  fantastic  forms  of  animated  life, 
through  which  God's  glory  seems  to  shine  with  a  struggle,  and 
but  faintly,  shall  disappear ;  nay,  the  worlds  which  bore  and 
sheltered  them  in  their  rugged  dens  and  caves,  shall  flee  from 
the  face  of  the  Regenerator.  A  milder  day  is  to  dawn  on  the 
universe ;  the  refinement  of  matter  is  to  keep  pace  with  the  ele- 
vation of  mind.  Evil  and  sin  are  to  be  banished  to  some  Siberia 
of  space.  The  word  of  the  poet  is  to  be  fulfilled — "  And  one 
eternal  spring  encircles  all !"  The  mediatorial  purpose  of  crea- 
tion, fully  subserved,  is  to  be  abandoned,  that  we  may  see  "  eye 
to  eye,"  and  that  God  may  be  "  all  in  all." 

Such  views  of  matter — its  present  ministry,  the  source  of  its 
beauty  and  glory,  and  its  future  destiny— are  found  in  the  pages 
of  both  Testaments.  Their  writers  have  their  eyes  anointed,  to 
see  that  they  are  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  temple — they  hear 
in  every  breeze  and  ocean  billow  the  sound  of  a  temple  service 
— and  feel  that  the  ritual  and  its  recipient  throw  the  shadow  of 
their  greatness  upon  every  stone  in  the  corners  of  the  edifice, 
and  upon  every  eft  crawling  along  its  floors.  Reversing  the 
miracle,  they  see  "  trees  as  men  walking,"  hear  the  speechless 
sing,  and,  in  the  beautiful  thought  of  our  noble  and  gifted 
"  Roman,"  catch  on  their  ears  the  fragments  of  a  "  divine  so- 
liloquy," filling  up  the  pauses  in  a  universal  anthem.  And, 
while  rejecting  the  Pagan  fable  of  absorption  into  the  Deity, 


300  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,   INFLUENCES, 

and  asserting  the  immortality  of  the  individual  soul,  they  are 
not  blind  to  the  transient  character  of  material  things.  They 
see  afar  off  the  spectacle  of  nature  retiring  before  God — the 
bright  toys  of  this  nursery — sun,  moon,  earth,  and  stars — put 
away,  like  childish  things,  the  symbols  of  the  infinite  lost  in  the 
infinite  itself.  The  "  heavens  shall  vanish  like  smoke ;  the 
heavens  shall  be  dissolved ;  the  earth  shall  be  removed  like  a 
cottage ;  the  elements  shall  melt  with  fervent  heat."  Nowhere 
in  Pagan  or  mystic  epic,  dream,  drama,  or  didactic  poem,  can 
we  find  a  catastrophe  at  once  so  philosophical  and  so  poetical 
as  this. 

If  we  pass  from  the  general  idea  and  spirit  of  Hebrew  poetry, 
to  its  parts  and  details,  many  may  deem  that  other  ancient  na- 
tions have  the  advantage.  Where,  in  Scripture,  it  may  be  said, 
a  piece  of  mental  masonry  so  large,  solid,  and  complete,  as  the 
Iliad  ?  Where  a  fiction  so  varied,  interesting,  romantic,  and 
gracefully  told,  as  the  Odyssey  ?  Where  such  awful  odes  to 
Nemesis  and  the  Furies,  as  Eschylus  has  lifted  up  from  his 
blasted  rock,  and,  in  vain,  named  Dramas  ?  Where  the  perfect 
beauty  of  Sophocles — the  RafFaelle  of  Dramatists  ?  Where  the 
inflamed  common-place  of  Demosthenes,  like  the  simple  fire  of 
a  household  hearth  scattered  against  the  foes  of  Athens  with 
the  hand  of  a  giant,  or  the  bold  yet  beautiful  mysticism  of  Plato, 
or  the  divine  denial  and  inspired  blasphemy  of  Lucretius  ?  Have 
the  Hebrews  aught,  amid  their  rugged  monotonies,  that  can  be 
compared  with  all  this  ? 

Now,  in  speaking  to  this  question,  we  have  something  to 
concede  and  to  premise,  as  we  have,  in  part,  premised  and  con- 
ceded before.  We  grant  that  there  are  in  Scripture  no  such 
elaborate  and  finished  works  of  art^  as  some  of  the  master-pieces 
we  have  named.  We  grant,  too,  that,  in  judging  of  the  poetic 
merit  of  the  Bible,  we  may  be  prejudiced  in  its  favor  by  early 
associations,  by  love  and  faith,  just  as  its  detractors,  too,  may 
have  their  internal  motives  for  dislike  to  it.  But  we  are  not 
without  reasons  for  the  preference  we  give.  And  these  are  the 
following :— 


AND   EFFECTS    OF    SCRIPTURE   POETRT.  801 

First,  Scripture  poetry  is  of  an  earlier  date  than  Grecian, 
the  Muse  of  Greece  was  but  a  babe  at  the  time  that  she  of 
Palestine  was  a  woman,  with  the  wings  of  a  great  eagle,  abid- 
ing in  the  wilderness.  This  accounts,  at  once,  for  her  inferior- 
ity in  art,  and  her  advantage  in  natural  beauty  and  power. 

Secondly,  The  Poetry  of  the  Hebrews  appeared  among  a 
rude  people,  as  well  as  in  an  early  age — a  people  with  few  other 
arts,  possessing  an  imperfect  statuary,  no  painting,  and  no 
philosophy,  strictly  so  called.  Their  poetry  stood  almost  alone, 
and  was  neither  aided  nor  enfeebled  by  the  influences  of  a  some- 
what advanced  civilization.  Hence,  in  criticizing  it,  we  feel  we 
have  to  do  with  a  severe  and  simple  energy,  as  unique  and  in- 
divisible as  the  torrent  which  broke  forth  from  the  rock  in  the 
desert.  Like  it,  too,  it  seems  a  voice  of  nature  called  into  play 
by  the  command  of  God.  Whenever  a  nation  possesses  only 
one  peculiar  gift,  it  will  be  generally  found  that  that  gift  is  in 
perfection.  And  not  more  certainly  were  the  Greeks  once  the 
undisputed  masters  of  the  science  of  beauty,  the  Romans  of  the 
art  of  war,  and  the  Italians  of  painting,  than  were  the  Hebrews 
of  the  sublime  of  poetry. 

Thirdly,  The  purity  was  not  inferior  to  the  elevation  of  their 
strains.  And  this,  which  proves  that  they  came  from  a  higher 
fountain  than  that  of  mere  genius,  proves  also  that  they  are 
"  above  all  Greek,  all  Roman  fame."  Their  beauties  are  "  holy 
beauties,  like  dew-drops  from  the  womb  of  the  morning."  There 
is  the  utmost  boldness,  without  the  least  license,  in  their  poetry. 
With  blushes,  we  omit  to  press  the  contrast  betwixt  this  and 
the  foul  offenses,  against  reverence  and  decency,  found  in  the 
cleanest  of  Pagan  poets.  Small  need  for  a  Christian  to  spit  in 
the  temples  of  the  gods,  when  their  own  poets  scruple  not,  ha- 
bitually and  deliberately,  to  defile  them. 

Fourthly,  Partly  from  their  intense  purity,  partly  from  the 
uniform  loftiness  of  their  object,  and  partly,  as  we  deem,  from 
their  peculiar  afflatus,  the  bards  of  the  Bible  carry  the  creden- 
tials of  a  power  unrivaled  and  alone.  Homer  and  Virgil  are 
the  demi-gods  of  scholars  and  school-boys ;  Sophocles  and  Lu- 


302  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,    INFLUENCES, 

cretius,  the  darlings  of  those  who  worship  a  higher  art ;  and 
Plato,  the  favorite  prose-poet  of  the  devotees  of  ethnic  philos- 
ophy. But  the  children,  in  all  civihzed  nations,  weep  at  the 
tale  of  Joseph,  or  tremble  at  the  picture  of  Moses  on  the  Mount ; 
every  female  heart  has  inscribed  on  it  the  story  of  Ruth  and 
the  figure  of  Mary ;  the  dreams,  even  of  skeptics,  are  haunted 
by  the  glories  of  the  Christian  heaven  or  the  terrors  of  the 
Christian  hell  ;  and  on  the  hps  of  the  dying,  float,  faintly  or 
fully,  snatches  from  the  Psalms  of  David,  or  the  sayings  of 
Jesus.  The  name  "  Jesus,"  owns  one,  who,  we  hope,  shall  yet 
feel  more  than  he  does  his  full  claims,  "  is  not  so  much  written, 
as  it  is  plowed  into  the  mind  of  humanity."  Even  supposing 
their  divine  pretensions  untrue,  yet  here  is  literary  -power — "  this 
is  true  fame" — the  only  fame  deserving  that  firmamental  name, 
and  which  not  chance,  nor  antiquity,  nor  prejudice,  nor  the  in- 
fluence of  criticism,  but  merit,  must  have  won.  Not  chance, 
for  as  soon  could  atoms  have  danced  without  music  into  a 
world,  as  could  such  and  so  many  winged  words  have  fortui- 
tously assembled — not  antiquity,  for  this  only  increases  the 
marvel — not  prejudice,  for  have  not  the  prejudices  of  the  world 
been  at  least  as  strong  as  those  of  the  church,  and  has  not  the 
world  regarded  the  songs  of  Zion  much  as  the  English,  behind 
Harold's  entrenchments,  the  minstrelsy  of  the  Norman  trou- 
veurs,  and  yet  owned  their  music  and  felt  their  power — not 
the  influence  of  criticism,  for  who  ever  sought  to  lorite  up  the 
literature  of  the  Bible,  or  even  gave  it  its  just  meed  of  praise, 
till  lono'  after  it  had  wreathed  itself  round  the  iraasjination  and 
the  heart  of  mankind  ?  But  how  better,  or  how  at  all,  solve 
the  problem  of  such  power,  save  by  drawing  the  old  conclusion, 
"  This  Cometh  from  the  Lord,  who  is  wonderful  in  counsel  and 
excellent  in  working."  No  book  like  this.  It  has  stunned  into 
wonder  those  whom  it  has  not  subdued  into  worship ;  electrified 
those  whom  it  has  not  warmed  ;  established  its  reign  in  an  ene- 
my's country ;  and,  while  principally  seeking  the  restoration  of 
man's  moral  nature,  it  has  captivated  eternally  his  imagination. 


AND   EFFECTS    OF    SCRIPTURE   POETRY.  303 

and  cast  a  shadow  of  eclipse  upon  the  brightest  glories  of  his 
fiction  and  his  poetry. 

For,  after  the  concession  made  in  regard  to  artistic  purpose 
and  polish,  we  are  wilhng  to  accept  the  critical  challenge  given 
us,  as  to  the  poetic  beautj  of  the  Scriptures.  We  dare  prefer 
Job  to  Eschylus  and  to  Homer,  and  even  Hazlitt  and  Shelley 
have  done  so  before  us.  There  is  no  ode  in  Pindar  equal 
to  the  "Song  of  the  Bow,"  and  no  chorus  in  Sophocles  to  the 
"  Ode"  of  Habakkuk.  In  all  the  "  Odyssey"  there  is  nothing 
so  pathetic  and  primitive  as  "  Ruth,"  and  the  story  of  Joseph. 
Achilles  arming  for  battle  is  tame  to  the  coming  forth,  in  the 
Apocalypse,  of  Him,  whose  "  name  is  Faithful  and  True  ;"  who 
is  "clothed  in  a  vesture  dipped  in  blood  ;"  and  "  treadeth  the 
wine-press  of  the  fierceness  and  wrath  of  Almighty  God."  Jere- 
miah and  Nahum  make  the  martial  fire  of  the  "  Iliad"  pale. 
The  descriptions  of  natural  objects  in  Lucretius  seem  small 
when  compared  with  the  massive  pictures  of  David  and  Job. 
If  he  has  been  said  "  divinely  to  deny  the  divine,"  the  bards  of 
Israel  have  far  more  divinely  confessed  and  reflected  it,  till  you 
cry — "  It  is  the  voice  of  a  God,  not  of  a  man."  The  questions 
of  Demosthenes,  what  are  they  to  those  of  Ezekiel  or  x\mos, 
sublime  and  fearful  as  the  round  sickle  of  the  waning  moon  ? 
Plato  and  the  elements  of  his  philosophy  lie  quietly  inclosed  in 
some  of  Solomon's  sentences ;  and,  transcendently  above  all, 
whether  Roman,  Greek^  or  Hebrew,  tower  two,  mingling  their 
notes  with  the  songs  of  angels — the  Divine  Man,  who  spake 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  and  the  Prophet  who  stood  in  spirit 
beside  his  Cross,  and  sang  of  him  whose  face  was  more  marred 
than  that  of  man,  and  his  form  than  that  of  the  sons  of  men. 

The  great  modern  poets  still  remain.  And  here  we  find  but 
four  who  can  even  be  named  in  the  comparison — Dante,  Shak- 
speare,  Milton,  and  Goethe.  First,  Dante  comes  forward  reluc- 
tantly, for  not  Virgil  nor  Beatrice  are  dearer  to  him  than  Moses 
and  Isaiah.  Indeed,  the  Hebrew  bards,  and  not  the  Mantuan 
poet,  are  his  real  "  masters."  "  He  is  indebted,"  says  Hazlitt, 
"  to  the  Bible  for  the  gloomy  tone  of  his  mind,  as  well  as  for  the 


80-4  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,    INFLUENCES, 

prophetic  fury  which  exalts  and  kindles  his  poetry."  He  owes, 
we  should  rather  say,  his  gloomy  tone  of  mind  to  himself,  and 
the  truths  and  visions,  which  frequently  cheer  it,  to  the  Bible. 
But  the  second  part  of  the  sentence  is  true.  The  moral  sever- 
ity of  tone,  the  purged  perdition  poured  out  upon  his  enemies, 
the  air  of  exultation  with  which  he  recounts  their  sufferings,  re- 
mind us  of  Ezekiel,  or  of  him  who  said — "  Thou  art  righteous, 
O  Lord  !  who  hast  judged  thus,  and  hast  given  them  blood  to 
drink,  for  they  are  worthy."  In  his  union,  too,  of  a  severe  and 
simple  style,  with  high  idealism  of  conception,  he  resembles  the 
Scripture  writers,  whose  visions  are  so  sublime,  that  they  need 
only  to  be  transcribed  to  produce  their  full  effect.  His  child- 
like tone  is  also  Scriptural — a  tone,  we  may  remark,  preserved 
fully  in  no  translation,  save  one  in  prose  we  read  lately,*  which 
reminded  us  of  the  "Pilgrim's  Progress."  But,  while  the  pro- 
phets are  the  masters,  Dante  is  obviously  but  a  scholar.  His 
vehemence  and  fury  compared  to  theirs  resemble  furnace,  beside 
starry,  flames.  Too  much  of  personal  feeling  mingles  with  his 
prophetic  ire.  And  while  possessing  more  of  the  subtilty  which 
distinguishes  the  Italian  mind,  he  has  not  such  wealth  of 
imagery,  and  towering  grandeur  of  eloquence,  as  the  Hebrews, 
little  or  nothing  of  their  lyrical  impulse,  and  while  at  home  in 
hell,  he  does  not  tread  the  Empyrean  with  such  free  and  sov- 
ereign steps,  although  there,  too,  he  has  a  right,  and  knows  ho 
has  a  right  to  be. 

Shakspeare — nature's  favorite,  though  unbaptized  and  un- 
consecrated,  child — has  derived  less  from  Scripture  than  any 
other  great  modern  author,  and  affords  fewer  points  of  com- 
parison with  it.  lie  was  rather  a  piece  of  nature  than  a  prophet. 
His  real  religion,  as  expressed  in  the  words,  "  We  are  such  stuff 
as  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep," 
seems  to  have  been  a  species  of  ideal  Pantheism.  He  loved 
the  fair  face  of  nature ;  he  saw  also  its  poetic  meaning ;  but  did 
not  feel,  nor  has  expressed  so  deeply  its  under-current  of  moral 
law,  nor  the  sublime  attitude  it  exhibits,  as  leaning  upon  its 

*  By  Dr.  John  Carlyle. 


AND   EFFECTS    OF   SCRIPTURE    POETRY,  305 

God.  Hence,  while  the  most  wide  and  genial,  and  one  of  the 
least  profane,  he  is  also  one  of  (he  least  rehgious  of  poets.  His 
allusions  to  Scripture,  and  to  the  Christian  faith,  are  few  an-d 
undecided.  He  has  never  even  impersonated  a  character  of 
high  religious  enthusiasm.  He  never,  we  think,  could  have 
written  a  good  sacred  drama;  and  had  he  tried  to  depict  a 
Lulher,  a  Knox,  a  Savonarola,  or  any  character  in  whose  mind 
one  great,  earnest  idea  was  predominant,  he  had  failed.  The 
gray,  clear,  catholic  sky  behind  and  above,  would  have  made 
such  volcanoes  pale.  Had  he  written  on  Knox,  Queen  Mary 
would  have  carried  away  all  his  sympathies  ;  or,  on  Luther,  he 
would  have  been  more  anxious  to  make  Tetzel  ridiculous,  than 
the  Keformer  reverend  or  great.  Shakspeare  was  not,  in  short, 
an  earnest  man,  hardly  even — strange  as  the  assertion  may 
seem — an  enthusiast,  and,  therefore,  stood  in  exact  contrast  to 
the  Hebrew  bards.  He  often  trifled  with  his  universal  powers 
— they  devoted  the  whole  of  their  one  immense  talent  to  God. 
He,  like  his  own  Puck  or  Ariel,  loved  to  live  in  the  colors  of 
the  rainbow,  to  play  in  the  plighted  clouds,  to  do  his  spiriting 
gently,  when  he  did  it,  but  better  still  to  swing  in  the  "  blossom 
that  hangs  from  the  bough  ;"  they  were  ready-girt,  stripped, 
and  sandaled,  as  those  "  ministering  spirits  sent  forth  to  minis- 
ter to  the  heirs  of  salvation."  He  seemed  sometimes  waiting 
upon  the  wing  for  a  great  commission,  which  never  came — the 
burden  of  the  Lord  lay  always  upon  their  spirits.  He  was  of 
the  "  earth  earthy,"  the  truest  and  most  variegated  emanation 
from  its  soil ;  but  they  light  upon  the  mountains  like  sunbeams 
from  a  higher  region.  Even  of  the  "  myriad-minded"  Shak- 
speare may  we  not  say,  that  "  he  who  is  least  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  greater  than  he ;"  and  that  "  a  little  child"  like  John 
"  might  lead"  this  giant  of  the  drama,  and  miracle  of  men. 

Milton,  on  the  other  hand,  seems  almost  a  belated  bard  of 
the  Bible.  And  this  not  simply  on  account  of  his  genius,  or 
of  the  deep  tinge  of  Hebraism  which  his  studies  gave  to  all 
his  writings,  but  because  he  has  sought  his  inspiration  from  the 
same  sources.     He  has  gone  to  the  depths  of  his  moral,  as  well 


306  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,    INFLUENCES, 

as  mental  nature,  in  search  of  tlie  fountains  of  poesy.  He  has 
cried  aloud  to  the  Eternal  Spirit  to  send  his  seraphim  to  touch 
his  lips  with  a  live  coal  from  his  altar.  Hence  his  writings 
have  attained  a  certain  sifted  purity  we  can  find  nowhere  else 
out  of  Scripture.  Hence  a  settled  unity  and  magnificence  of 
purpose,  which  no  defects  in  the  mere  mechanism  of  composi- 
tion, nor  sinkings  in  energy,  can  disturb.  Hence  the  quotations 
from  the  Bible  fiill  sweetly  into  their  places  along  his  page,  and 
find  at  once  suitable  society.  "Warton,  in  an  ingenious  paper 
in  the  "  Adventurer,"  ascribes  Milton's  superiority  over  the  an- 
cients to  the  use  he  has  made  of  Scripture  ;  he  might  rather 
have  traced  it  to  the  sympathy  with  the  Hebrew  genius,  w^hich 
has  made  his  use  of  it  so  wise,  and  so  eflPectual ;  for  mere  crude 
quotations,  or  dextrous  imitation,  would  never  have  elevated  him 
to  such  a  height.  Unless,  in  conscious  majesty,  he  had  "  come 
unto  his  own,"  his  own  would  not  have  received  him.  Had 
not  his  nature  been  supernal,  his  thefts  had  not  been  counted 
the  thefts  of  a  god. 

But  even  in  Milton's  highest  flights  we  miss  much,  besides 
the  untransferable  prophetic  differentia  of  the  Bible  poets.  He 
has  not  the  perfect  ease  of  motion  which  distinguishes  them. 
He  is  a  "  permitted  guest ;"  they  are  "  native  and  endued"  to 
the  celestial  element.  He  is  intensely  conscious  of  himself — 
never  forgets  who  it  is  that  sits  on  the  fiery  chariot,  and  passes 
through  the  gates  into  the  presence  of  the  "  thousand  ardors ;" 
they  are  lost,  though  not  blasted,  in  the  ocean  of  light  and 
glory.  He  may  be  hkened  to  one  of  those  structures  of  art,  the 
pyramids,  or  the  ministers  which  nature  seems  to  "  adopt  into 
her  race" — the  Hebrews  to  the  cathedrals  of  the  woods,  made 
oracular  at  evening  by  the  wind  of  Heaven. 

Goethe,  we  know,  admired  the  Bible  as  a  composition,  took 
great  interest  in  its  geography,  and  had  his  study  hung  round 
with  maps  of  the  Holy  Land.  But  even  less  than  Shakspeare 
did  he  resemble  its  poets.  Universal  genius  bred  in  Shakspeare 
a  love  for  all  things  which  he  knew,  without  much  enthusiasm 
for  any  in  parti(mlar.     An  inferior,  but  more  highly  cultured 


AND   EFFECTS    OF   SCRIPTURE   POETRY.  30^ 

degree  of  the  same  power,  led  Goethe  to  universal  liJcing,  -which 
at  a  distance  seemed,  and  in  some  degree  was,  indifference.  His 
great  purpose,  after  the  fever  of  youth  was  spent,  was  to  build 
up  his  Ego,  hke  a  cold,  majestic  statue,  and  to  surround  it  with 
offerings  from  every  region — from  earth,  heaven,  and  hell !  He 
transmuted  all  things  into  ink;  he  analyzed  his  tears  ere  suf- 
fering them  to  fell  to  the  ground ;  his  tortures  he  tortured  in 
search  of  their  inmost  meaning ;  his  vices  he  rolled  like  a  sweet 
morsel,  that  he  might  know  their  ultimate  flavor,  and  what 
legacy  of  lesson  they  had  to  leave  him  ;  his  mental  battles  he 
fought  o'er  again,  that  he  might  become  a  mightier  master  of 
spiritual  tactics  ;  like  the  ocean,  whatever  came  within  his 
reach,  was  engulfed,  was  drenched  in  the  main  element  of 
his  being,  went  to  swell  his  treasures,  and  generally  "  suffered 
a  sea-change,"  into  "  something"  at  once  "  rich,"  "  strange," 
and  cold.  This  was  not  the  manner  of  the  rapt,  God-filled, 
self-emptied,  sin-denouncing,  impetuous,  and  intense  bards  of 
Israel.  Could  we  venture  to  conceive  Isaiah,  or  Ezekiel,  enter- 
ing Goethe's  chamber  at  Weimar,  and  uttering  one  of  their 
divine  rhapsodies — how  mildly  would  he  have  smiled  upon  the 
fire-eyed  stranger — how  attentively  heard  him — how  calmly 
sought  to  measure  and  classify  him — how  punctually  recorded 
in  his  journal  the  appearance  of  an  "  extraordinary  human 
meteor,  a  w^onderful  specimen  of  uncultured  genius" — and  how 
complacently  inferred  his  own  superiority  !  But  no  ;  the  chill 
brow  of  Chimborazo  is  indeed  higher  far  than  the  thunder-storm 
leading  its  power  and  terrible  beauty  along  his  sides,  and  is 
nearer  the  sun  ;  but  the  sun  there  is  rayless  and  cold,  the  air 
around  is  eternal  frost,  the  calm  and  silence  are  those  of  death ; 
whereas  a  hundred  valleys  below  hear  in  the  thunder  the  voice, 
and  see  in  the  lightning  the  footsteps,  of  God  :  the  one  is  elo- 
quent, although  it  be  with  warning ;  and  the  other  warm,  al- 
though it  be  with  wrath. 

In  that  glori6cation  of  Goethe,  so  common  in  the  present  day, 
we  see  an  attempt  to  exalt  art  above  nature,  culture  above 
genius,  study  above  impulse,  the  artist  above  the  poet—- an  at- 


-808  COMPARATIVE    ESTIMATE,    INFLUENCES, 

tempt  with  which  we  have  no  sympathy.  No  doubt,  a  certain 
measure  of  culture  is  now,  as  it  always  was,  necessary  to  men 
of  genius  ;  but  surely  this  is  not  an  age  in  which  culture  is  so 
neglected,  that  we  need  inculcate  it  at  the  expense  of  original 
power.  Nay,  it  is  now  so  generally  and  equally  diffused,  and 
its  effects  are  so  frequently  confounded  with  the  miracles  of 
genius,  that  it  becomes  incumbent  on  the  critic,  with  peculiar 
sternness,  to  point  to  the  impassable  gulf  of  distinction,  and  to 
assert  that  there  is  still  a  certain  inspiration 

"  WhicL.  comes  and  goes  like  dream, 
And  which  none  can  ever  trace  •" 

"  a  wind  which  bloweth  where  it  hsteth" — a  mysterious  some- 
thing which  no  culture  can  give,  and  no  lack  of  it  can  alto- 
gether take  away.  It  is  the  tendency  of  the  age — a  low  and 
infidel  tendency — to  trace  every  phenomenon,  both  of  mind  and 
matter,  downward,  through  developments  and  external  influ- 
ences, instead  of  upward,  through  internal  and  incalculable 
powers.  Genius,  with  our  modern  philosophers,  is  only  a  curi- 
ous secretion  of  the  brain  ;  poetry  must  be  "  scientific,"  else  it 
is  naught.  Shakspeare,  indeed,  was  an  "  extraordinary  de- 
velopment ;"  but  our  poetical  bees  must  not  now  be  permitted 
to  follow  their  own  divine  instinct  in  building  the  lofty  rhyme 
— they  must  to  school,  and  be  taught  geometry.  And  let 
none  dare  to  suck  at  the  breasts  of  the  Mighty  Mother,  till  he 
has  been  elaborately  trained  how  to  do  it !  The  first  principle 
of  this  criticism  is,  to  avoid  faults,  and  the  second,  to  shuu 
beauties.  Beware  of  too  many  fine  things.  Remember  the 
couplet — 

"  Men  doubt,  because  so  thick  they  lie, 
If  they  be  stars,  that  paint  the  galaxy." 

Now  the  secret  of  this  sophistry  seems  to  lie  in  the  confusion 
between  the  truly  and  the  falsely  fine.  Can  too  many  really 
new  and  beautiful  things  be  said  on  any  subject  ?     Can  there 


AND  EFFECTS  OF  SCRIPTURE  POETRY.        809 

be  too  maay  stars  in  an  unbounded  universe  ?  If  artistic  per- 
fection is  to  be  sought  at  the  price  even  of  one  consummate 
pearl — perhaps  the  seed-pearl  of  a  great  truth— were  it  not 
better  lost  ?  Even  were  it  only  a  beautiful  image,  should  it  be 
permitted  to  perish  ?  for  does  not  every  beautiful  image  repre- 
sent, at  least,  the  bright  edge  or  corner  of  a  truth  ?  No  fear 
that  books,  all-beautiful  and  full  of  meaning,  shall  be  unduly 
multiplied.  As  well  be  alarmed  for  the  advent  of  perfect  men. 
Of  too  much  truth  or  beauty  let  us  complain,  when  we  have 
had  a  spring  day  too  delightful,  a  sunbeam  too  delicately  spun, 
an  autumn  too  abundant.  The  finest  writers  in  tho  world  have 
been  the  most  luxuriant.  Witness  Jeremy  Taylor,  Shakspeare, 
Milton,  Burke,  and  the  Hebrew  bards.  It  is  an  age  of  barren 
or  cold  thinkers  which  finds  out  that  the  past  has  been  too 
rich  and  tropical — wishes  that  Job  had  shorn  his  Behemoths 
and  Leviathans,  and  Isaiah  let  blood  ere  he  uttered  his  cries 
against  Egypt  and  Assyria :  and  not  only  admires  a  book 
more,  because  its  faults  are  few,  than  because  its  beauties  are 
many,  but  regards  the  thick  glories  which  genius  may  have 
dropped  upon  it,  as  blemishes — its  "  many  crowns,"  as  proud 
and  putrid  ulcers.  And,  with  regard  to  the  vaunted  couplet 
quoted  above,  we  may  remember  that  the  nebular  hypothesis 
is  exploded.  They  are  stars,  nay  suns,  which  paint  our  and 
every  other  galaxy ! 

The  effects  of  all  this,  against  which  we  protest,  have  been 
to  crown  Goethe  "  a  mockery -king  of  snow"  over  our  modern 
poetry — to  create  a  style  of  m.isty  and  pretentious  criticism,  for- 
ever appeahng  to  certain  assumed  principles,  but  destitute  of 
genuine  instinctive  insight  into  poetry,  and  of  its  clear,  manly, 
and  fervid  expression — to  rear  a  set  of  poets  who  elaborately 
imitate  the  German  giants,  especially  in  their  faults,  and  delib- 
erately "  darken  counsel  by  words  without  knowledge" — to 
substitute  for  the  living  and  blood-warm  raptures  of  poesy, 
rhapsodies  at  once  mad  and  measured,  extravagant  and  cold, 
obscure  and  shallow — and  to  dethrone  for  a  time  the  great 
ancient  Kings  of  the  Lyre,  who  "  spake  as  they  were  moved," 


310  COMPARATIVE    ESTIMATE,    INFLUENCES, 

and  whose  impetuous  outpourings  arranged  themselves  into 
beauty,  created  their  own  principles  of  art,  and  secured  their 
own  immortality,  as  they  fell,  clear  and  hot,  from  the  touched 
spirit  and  glowing  heart.  We  need  scarcely  add,  that  while 
much  of  the  popular  poetry  of  the  day  is  cold  with  unbelief,  or 
dark  with  morbid  doubt,  that  which  it  seeks  to  supersede  was 
the  flower  of  a  rooted  religious  faith. 

We  come  now  to  speak  of  the  influences  of  Scripture  poetry. 
And  these  includ-e  its  religious  and  intellectual  influences. 
How  much  religion  owes  to  poetry  !  There  is  not  a  form  of 
it  so  false,  but  has  availed  itself  of  the  aid  of  song.  Thor  and 
Woden  loom  and  lean  over  us,  from  the  north,  through  the 
mist  of  poetry,  like  the  Great  Bear  and  Arcturus  shining  dimly 
down  through  the  shifting  vail  of  the  Aurora.  Seeva,  Bramah, 
and  Vishnu,  have  all  had  their  laureates,  and  the  wheels  of 
Juggernaut  have  moved  to  the  voice  of  hymns  and  music. 
Mohammed  is  the  hero  of  ten  thousand  parables,  poems,  and  tales 
in  the  East.  The  Fire-god  of  Persia  has  been  sung  in  many  a 
burning  strain.  The  wooden  or  stone  idols  of  Africa  have  not 
wanted  their  singers.  Pantheism  itself  has  inspired  powerful 
and  eloquent  strains.  Lucretius  has  extracted  a  wild  and  mag- 
nificent music  from  Atheism — a  music  played  off  on  the  dry 
bones  of  a  dead  universe.  Every  belief  or  nonbelief  has  found 
its  poetry,  excepting  always  modern  materiahsm,  as  represented 
by  the  utilitarian  philosophy.  There  is  no  speculation  in  its 
eye — no  man  of  genius  can  make  it  beautiful,  because  it  has 
not  one  beautiful  elem.ent  in  it,  and  because  no  m^tn  of  genius 
can  believe  it ;  its  sole  music  is  the  chink  of  money  ;  its  main 
theological  principle  (the  gradual  development  of  mud  into  man, 
and  dirt  into  deity)  is  as  incapable  of  poetic  treatment  as  it  is 
of  scientific  proof;  and  what,  unless  to  place  it  as  a  prime  arti- 
cle in  the  museum  of  human  folly,  can  be  done  to  acajmt  ?;jor- 
tmtm  so  hateful  and  so  helpless  ? 

If  poetry  has  thus  fanned  the  flames  of  liilse  religions,  much 
more  might  it  have  been  expected  to  advance  the  interests  and 
glorify  the  doctrines  of  the  true.    And  hence,  from  the  begin- 


AND  EFFECTS  OF  SCRIPTURE  POETRY.         811 

ning,  poetry  has  been  a  "  Slave  of  the  Lamp"  to  the  mono- 
theistic faith.  The  first  thunder- word  (Be  hght)  that  startled 
the  silence  of  the  primeval  deep,  was  a  word  of  poetry.  The 
first  promise  made  to  fallen  man  (that  of  the  woman's  seed) 
was  uttered  in  poetry.  In  the  language  of  figure  and  symbol, 
God  spake  to  the  patriarchs.  Moses,  the  legislator  of  Israel, 
was  a  poet ;  the  scene  at  Sinai  was  full  of  transcendent  poeti- 
cal effect — the  law  was  given  amid  the  savage  minstrelsies  of 
tempest  and  of  thunder.  In  later  ages,  the  flame  of  Jewish 
piety  was  now  stirred  by  the  breath  of  prophetic  song,  and  now 
sunk  into  ashes,  when  that  died  away.  The  gospel  was  born 
to  the  sound  of  ancrelic  harmonies ;  its  first  utterance  was  in 
heavenly  poetry  and  praise.  And  to  poetry  and  song,  the  pres- 
ent system  is  to  pass  away ;  the  grave  to  open  to  its  golden 
strains  ;  the  books  of  judgment,  at  its  bidding,  are  to  expand 
their  oracular  pages ;  and  when  the  fairer  creation  descends, 
again  are  the  morning  stars  to  sing  together,  and  all  the  sons 
of  God  to  shout  for  joy. 

It  is  not  easy,  too,  to  say  how  much,  even  nov>^,  the  poetic 
form  of  Scripture  contributes  to  its  preservation,  and  to  its  spread 
through  the  world.  Its  poetry  charms  many  of  its  professed 
enemies  ;  and,  as  they  hsten  to  its  old  and  solemn  harmonies, 
their  right  hand  forgets  its  cunning,  and,  instead  of  casting 
stones  at  it,  they  become  stones  themselves.  The  ofiicers  who 
were  sent  to  apprehend  Christ  went  away,  exclaiming — "  Never 
man  spake  hke  this  man."  So  many,  who  have  drawn  near  the 
Bible,  as  executors,  not  of  another's,  but  of  their  own  hatred, 
have  said,  as  they  turned  at  last  from  it,  lest  they  should  be  en- 
tirely subdued — "  Never  book  spake  hke  this  book."  Its  poeti- 
cal beauty  has  had  another  influence  still,  in  regard  to  those  of 
its  foes  who  have  ventured  to  assail  it.  It  has  served  to  expose 
and  shame,  and  to  rouse  general  feeling  against  them.  Never 
does  a  ruffian  look  more  detestable,  than  when  insulting  the 
beautiful ;  never  is  a  hoof  more  hateful,  than  when  trampling 
on  a  rose.  When  a  Lauder  snatches  rudely  at  the  laurels  of 
a  Milton,  intellectual  Britain  starts  up  to  resent  the  outrage. 


3 12  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,    INFLUENCES, 

When  even  the  foul  spittle  of  a  sick  and  angry  giant  falls  awiy, 
and  threatens  to  sully  the  fair  fame  of  a  Howard,  we  have 
seen  lately  how  dangerous  it  is  for  the  greatest  to  tamper  with 
the  verdicts  of  the  universal  human  heart.  And  so  the  few, 
such  as  Paine,  who  have  insulted  the  Hebrew  or  Greek  Scrip- 
tures, have  been  blasted  with  unanimous  reprobation.  It  has 
fared  with  them,  as  with  Uzziah,  when  he  went  in  to  profane 
the  temple  of  the  Lord.  That  instant  the  fatal  spot  of  leprosy 
rose  to  his  brow,  and,  while  all  around  sought  to  thrust  him  out, 
he  himself  hastened  to  depart.  In  fact,  the  love  that  beats  in  the 
general  bosom  to  this  book  is  never  disclosed  till  at  such  times, 
when  thousands,  who  care  little  for  its  precepts,  and  are  skepti- 
cal of  its  supreme  authority,  rise  up,  nevertheless,  in  indignation, 
and  say — "  The  man  who  abuses  the  Bible,  insults  the  race  :  in 
trampling  on  a  book  so  beautiful,  and  that  has  been  so  widely 
believed,  he  is  tramphng  on  all  of  us,  and  on  himself  Let  him, 
as  a  moral  leper,  be  dragged  without  the  gate,  and  perish  in  his 
own  shame."  So  wisely  has  God  guarded  his  Book,  by  the 
awful  beauty  which,  like  a  hedge  of  roses  mingled  with  thorns, 
surrounds  it  all. 

The  same  environment  of  poetry  has  not  only  prevailed  to 
defend,  but  to  circulate  the  Bible.  It  has  opened  to  it  the 
hearts  of  children,  who,  although  unable  to  comprehend  even 
partially  its  doctrines,  and  feeling  much  in  its  precepts  that  is 
repulsive  to  their  early  and  evil  instincts,  yet  leap  instantly  to 
its  loveliness,  its  interest,  pathos,  and  simple  majesty.  Many 
have  sought  to  panegyrize  the  Scriptures  ;  but,  of  all  such  at- 
tempts, only  the  panting  praises  of  the  dying,  such  as  the  words 
of  Crabbe,  when  he  said — "  That  blessed  book — that  blessed 
book  !" — can  be  compared  with  the  encomiums  which  the  lips 
and  the  looks,  the  day  and  the  night  dreams,  of  the  young  have 
passed  upon  it.  Perdition  is  often  wrapped  up  in  jelly  for  in- 
fant palates ;  but  "  here  is  wisdom"  the  divinest,  employed  in 
hiding  the  medicine  of  eternal  life,  amid  the  sweet  preparations 
of  the  Psalms,  the  stories,  and  the  imagery  of  the  Book  of 
God. 


AND    EFFECTS    OF    SCRIPTURE    POETRY.  313 

This  beauty  is  as  humble  as  it  is  high.  It  enters  into  the 
lowliest  cottages,  secure,  like  our  illustrious  sovereign,  in  her 
own  native  dignity  and  lofty  innocence.  No  altar  for  this  di- 
vine Book  superior  to  the  dusty  table  of  the  poor,  where,  amid 
foul  fire  and  smoke,  and  fouler  hearts,  it  lies  d^  and  night, 
gradually  clearing  the  atmosphere,  and  changing  the  natures 
around  it — where,  at  first  regarded  with  awe,  as  a  powerful  foe, 
it  is  next  admired  as  an  intelligent  companion,  and  at  last  takea 
to  the  heart,  as  the  best  friend.  Fine,  the  "  big  ha'  Bible,  ance 
his  father's  pride,"  produced  by  the  gray-haired  sage  of  the 
simple,  pious  family  ;  but  finer  still,  the  Book  dropped  into  a 
godless  house,  and  there  left  alone,  save  for  the  spirit-light  of 
its  own  pages,  to  work  its  way  and  God's  will,  till,  at  last,  it  be- 
comes the  center  and  the  eye,  the  master  and  the  magnet,  of  the 
dwelling.  And,  but  for  its  beauty,  would  it  so  soon  have  wou 
a  triumph  like  this  ? 

This  beauty,  too,  is  free  of  the  world.  It  passes,  unshorn 
and  -ifbmingled,  into  every  language  and  every  laud.  Where- 
ever  the  Bible  goes, "  beauty,"  in  the  words  of  rhe  poet, "  pitches 
her  tents  before  it."  Appealing,  as  its  poetry  does,  to  the  primi- 
tive principles,  elements,  and  "  all  that  must  eternal  be,"  of  the 
human  mind — using  the  oldest  speech,  older  than  Hebrew, 
that  of  metaphors  and  symbols — telling  few,  but  lifelike,  stories 
— and  describing  scenes  which  paint  themselves  easily  and  for- 
ever on  the  heart — it  needs  httle  more  introduction  than  does 
a  gleam  of  sunshine  or  a  flash  of  lightning.  It  soon  domesti- 
cates itself  among  the  CafFres,  or  the  ISTegroes,  or  the  Hindoos, 
or  the  Hottentots,  or  the  Chinese,  who  all  feel  it  to  be  intensely 
human,  before  they  feel  it  to  be  divine.  What  heart  but  must 
palpitate  at  the  sight  of  this  Virgin  Daughter  of  the  Most  High, 
going  forth  from  land  to  land,  with  no  dower  but  innocence,  and 
with  no  garment  but  beauty ;  yet  pow^erful  in  her  loveliness 
as  light,  and  in  her  innocence  safe  as  her  Father  who  is  iu 
heaven  ? 

Or,  let  us  look  at  the  influences  her  beauty  exerts  among  the 
advanced  and  the  intelligent  of  her  votaries,    These  have  per- 

—  9 


314  COMPARATIVE    ESTIMATE,    INFLUEITCES, 

haps  been  at  first  attracted  by  this  to  her  feet.  They  have  loved 
her  beauty  before  they  knew  her  worth,  for  often 

"  You  must  love  her,  ere  to  you 
She  doth  seem  worthy  of  your  love." 

And  even  after  they  have  learned  to  value  her  for  her  internal 
quahties,  the  enchantment  of  her  loveliness  remains.  The  love 
of  their  espousals  is  never  wholly  lost ;  and  they  say,  with  exul- 
tation— "  Our  beloved  is  not  only  a  king's  daughter,  and  all- 
glorious  within,  but  she  is  fair  as  the  moon,  and  clear  as  the 
sun."  Nay,  even  when  doubts  as  to  this  royal  origin  may  at 
times  cross  their  mind,  they  are  re-assured  by  gazing  again  at 
her  transcendent  beauty,  and  seeing  the  blood  of  heaven  blush- 
ing in  her  cheek.  In  the  poetical  beauty  and  grandeur  of  Scrip- 
ture, we  have,  as  it  were,  a  perpetual  miracle  attesting  its 
divine  origin,  after  the  influence  of  its  first  miracles  has  in  a 
great  measure  died  away,  and  although  all  now  be  still  around 
Sinai's  mount,  and  upon  Bethlehem's  plains. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  thought  that  we  are  attributing  too  much 
to  the  influence  of  beauty.  Does  not  the  Bible  owe  much  more 
to  its  divine  truth  ?  and  does  it  not  detract  from  that  truth,  to 
say  that  beauty  has  done  so  much  ?  But,  first,  we  do  not 
maintain  that  its  beauty  has  done  so  much  as  its  truth ;  sec- 
ondly, the  influence  of  beauty  has  been  subsidiary  and  subordi- 
nate; thirdly,  had  there  been  no  background  of  truth,  the  in- 
fluence of  beauty  would  have  been  inconsiderable  and  transient ; 
and,  fourthly,  the  beauty  is  of  that  purged  and  lofty  order 
which  betokens  the  presence  of  the  highest  truth — the  wings 
are  those  of  angels,  the  flowers  those  of  the  garden  of  God. 

We  say  not  that  the  beauty  of  Scripture  ever  did,  or  ever  can, 
convert  a  soul ;  but  it  may  often  have  attracted  men  to  those 
means  of  spiritual  influence  where  conversion  is  to  be  found. 
The  leaves,  not  the  flowers,  of  the  tree  of  life,  are  for  the  heal- 
ing of  the  nations ;  but  surely  the  flowers  have  often  first  fasci- 
nated the  eye  of  the  wanderer,  and  led  him  near  to  eat  and 
live.    When  Christianity  arose,  it  "  sti-eamed,"  says  Eusebius, 


AiTD   EFFECTS    OF    SCRIPXrEE    POETRY.  SI 5 

"  over  the  face  of  tlie  earth  like  a  sunbeam  ;"  and  men  were  too 
much  struck  by  its  novelty,  its  bright  and  blessed  revelations, 
its  adaptation  to  their  wants,  to  think  much  of  the  lovely  hues, 
and  soft  charms,  and  lofty  graces,  by  which  it  was  surrounded. 
It  is  very  different  now,  when  it  needs  a  perception  of  all  those 
subsidiary  attractions  tO'induce  multitudes  of  the  refined  and 
intellectual  to  devote  due  investigation  to  its  claims. 

And  besides  such  direct  effects  of  Scripture  poetry  in  draw- 
ing men  to  inquire  into  Scripture  truth,  and  in  confirming 
Christians  in  their  attachment  to  it,  there  is  a  silent  but  pro- 
found indirect  moral  power  wielded  by  it  in  the  world.  It  has 
refined  society,  softened  the  human  heart,  promoted  deference 
and  respect  to  woman,  and  tenderness  to  children,  cleansed  to 
a  great  degree  the  temple  of  our  literature,  and  especially  of  our 
poetry  and  fiction — denounced  licentiousness,  while  inculcating 
forgiveness  and  pity  to  those  led  astray,  and  riotous  living, 
while  smiling  upon  social  intercourse — suspended  the  terrors  of 
its  final  judgment  over  high  as  well  as  low,  over  the  sins  of  the 
heart  as  well  as  of  the  conduct,  over  rich  and  respectable  chil- 
dren of  hell  as  well  as  over  the  deA'il's  pariahs  and  poor  slaves — 
and  has  branded  such  public  enormities  as  war,  slavery,  and 
capital  punishments,  with  the  inexpiable  mark  of  its  spirit,  and 
is  destroying  them  by  the  breath  of  its  power.  We  say  Scrip- 
ture poetry  has  done  all  this  ;  for  how  feeble  and  ineffectual 
had  been  mere  enactments  and  precepts,  compared  with  the 
poems  in  which  the  gospel  principles  have  been  inscribed — the 
parables  in  which  they  have  been  incarnated — comp-#ed  to 
such  living  scenes  as  Jesus  holding  up  a  child  in  tha  midst  of 
his  disciples,  or  saying  to  the  woman  taken  in  adultery,  "  Go 
and  sin  no  more,"  or  commending  his  mother  to  his  beloved 
disciple  from  the  cross,  or  making  water  into  wine  at  Cana, 
or  feasting  with  publicans  and  sinners — or  to  such  pictures  as 
Dives  tormented  in  that  flame,  or  of  Christ  seated  on  the  great 
white  throne — or  to  such  denunciations  as  his  reverberated  woes 
against  the  formalists  and  hard-hearted  professoi-s  of  his  day  ! 
If  our  antiquated  Jerichos  of  evil  be  tottering,  and  have  already 


516  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,   INFLUENCES, 

to  some  extent  tottered  down,  it  is  owing  to  the  shout  of  poetic 
attack  with  which  the  genius  of  Christianity  has  been  so  long 
assaiHug  them. 

We  pass  to  speak  of  the  intellectual  influences  of  Scripture 
poetry.  And  these,  also,  are  of  two  kinds — direct  and  indirect : 
direct,  as  coming  on  minds  from  the  immediate  battery  of  the 
Bible  itself;  and  indirect,  as  transmitted  through  the  innumer- 
able writers  who  have  received  and  modified  the  shock. 

In  order  to  try  to  form  some  conception  of  the  influence 
of  the  Scriptures  upon  the  minds  of  the  millions  who  have 
read  them,  let  our  readers  ask  each  at  himself  the  question, 
"  What  have  I  gained  from  their  perusal  2"  And  if  he  has 
read  them  for  himself,  and  with  an  ordinary  degree  of  intelli- 
gence, there  must  arise  before  his  memory  a  "  great  multitude 
which  no  man  can  number,"  of  lofty  conceptions  of  God — of 
glimpses  into  human  nature — of  thoughts  "lying  too  deep  for 
tears" — of  pictures,  still  or  stormy,  passing  from  that  page  to 
the  canvas  of  imagination  to  remain  forever — of  emotions, 
causing  the  heart  to  vibrate  with  a  strange  joy,  "  which  one 
may  recognize  in  more  exalted  stages  of  his  being" — of  inspi- 
rations, raising  for  a  season  the  reader  to  the  level  of  his  author 
— and  of  perpetual  whispered  impressions,  "  This  is  the  highest 
thought  and  language  I  ever  encountered ;  I  am  standing  on 
the  pinnacle  of  literature."  And  then,  besides,  he  will  remember 
how  often  he  returned  to  this  volume,  and  found  the  charm  re- 
maining, and  the  fire  still  burning,  and  the  fountain  of  thought 
and  deling  (thought  suggestive,  feeling  creative)  still  flowing 
— how  every  sentence  was  found  a  text,  and  how  many  texts 
resembled  deep  and  deepening  eyes,  "  orb  within  orb,  deeper 
than  sleep  or  death" — how  each  new  perusal  showed  firmament 
above  firmament,  rising  in  the  book  as  in  the  night  sky,  till  at 
last  he  fell  on  his  knees,  and,  forgetting  to  read,  began  to  wonder 
and  adore — how,  after  this  trance  was  over,  he  took  up  the  book 
again,  and  found  that  it  was  not  only  a  telescope  to  show  him 
things  at)Ove,  but  also  a  microscope  to  show  him  things  below, 
and  a  mirror  to  reflect  his  own  heart,  and  a  magic  glass  to  bring 


AND    EFFECTS    OF    SCRIPTURE    POETRT.  31 7 

the  future  near — and  how,  at  last,  he  was  compelled  to  exclaim, 
"  How  dreadful  is  this  book ;  it  is  none  other  than  the  book  of 
God ;  it  is  the  gate  of  heaven  !"  Multiply  this,  the  experience 
of  one,  by  an  unknown  number  of  millions,  and  you  have  the 
answer  to  the  question  as  to  the  direct  intellectual  influence  of 
the  Scriptures  upon  those  who  have  really  read  them. 

But  it  is  more  to  our  purpose  to  trace  the  influence  it  has 
radiated  upon  the  pages  of  modern  authors,  and  which  from 
thence  has  been  reflected  on  the  world.  Let  a  rapid  glance 
sufiBce. 

Dante,  we  have  seen,  has  snatched  fire  from  the  Hebrew  sun, 
to  light  up  his  own  deep-sunk  Cyclopean  hearth.  Tasso's 
great  poem  is  "  Jerusalem  Delivered,"  and  the  style,  as  well  as 
the  subject,  shows  the  influence  of  Scripture  -upon  a  feebler  and 
more  artificial  spirit  than  Dante's.  Spenser  has  been  called  by 
Southey  a  "  high-priest ;"  and  his  "  Faery  Queen,"  in  its  pure 
moral  tone,  nothing  lessened  by  its  childlike  naivete  and  plain- 
spoken  descriptions,  as  well  as  in  its  gorgeous  allegory,  betrays 
the  diligent  student  of  the  "  Song,"  the  Parables,  and  the  Proph- 
ets. Giles  and  Phineas  Fletcher — the  one  in  his  "  Temptation  and 
Victory  of  Christ,"  and  the  other  in  his  "  Purple  Island" — are 
more  deeply  indebted  to  the  Scriptures ;  their  subjects  are  more 
distinctly  sacred,  and  their  piety  more  fervid  than  Spenser's, 
their  master.  George  Herbert  was  called  by  excellence  "  holy," 
and  his  "Temple"  proclaims  him  a  poet  "after  God's  own 
heart :"  it  is  cool,  chaste,  and  still,  as  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem 
on  the  evening  after  the  buyers  and  sellers  •ere  expelled.  The 
genius,  rugged  and  grand,  of  Dr.  Donne,  and  that  of  Quarles,  so 
quaint  and  whimsical,  and  that  of  Cowley,  so  subtile  and  cultured, 
were  all  sanctified.  Of  Milton,  what  need  we  say  ?  His  poems 
deserve,  much  more  than  Wisdom  or  Ecclesiasticus,  to  be  bound 
up  between  the  two  Testaments.  Nor  let  us  omit  a  sacred 
poem,  to  which  he  was  somewhat  indebted,  "The  Weeks  and 
Works  of  Du  Bartas,"  a  marvelous  medley  of  childish  weak- 
ness and  manly  strength,  with  more  seed-poetry  in  it  than  any 
poem,  except  "  Festus" — the  chaos  of  a  hundred  poetic  worlds. 


318  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,   INFLUENCES, 

Bunyan  seems  to  have  read  scarcely  a  book  but  tbe  Bible. 
When  he  quotes  it,  it  is  by  chapters  at  a  time,  and  he  has  nearly 
quoted  it  all.  He  seems  to  think  and  dream,  as  well  as  speak 
and  write,  in  Scripture  language.  Scripture  imagery  serves  him 
for  fancy — for,  with  the  most  vivid  of  imaginations,  fancy  he 
has  none — and  Scripture  words  for  eloquence,  for,  though  his 
invention  be  Shaksperean,  his  language  is  bare  and  bald.  He 
alone  could  have  counterfeited  a  continuation  of  the  Bible ! 
He  was  not  the  modern  Isaiah  or  Jeremiah,  for  he  had  no  lofty 
eloquence ;  and  his  pathos  was  wild  and  "terrible  rather  than 
soft  or  womanly — the  "  Man  in  the  Cage"  is  his  saddest  picture ; 
but  he  was  the  modern  Ezekiel,  in  his  vehement  simplicity,  his 
burning  zeal,  and  the  almost  diseased  objectiveness  of  his  genius. 
Macaulay  says,  there  were  in  that  age  but  two  men  of  original 
genius — the  one  wrote  the  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  the  other  the 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress ;"  and  he  might  have  added,  that  both 
seemed  incarnations  of  the  spirit  of  Hebrew  poetry,  and  that 
the  tinker  had  more  of  it  than  the  elaborate  poet.  The  age  of 
Elisha  and  Amos  seemed  to  have  rolled  round,  when  from 
among  the  basest  of  the  people  sprang  up  suddenly  this  brave 
man,  like  the  figure  in  his  own  Pilgrim,  and  cried  out  to  the 
Recorder  of  immortal  names,  "  Set  mine  down,"  and  the  song 
was  straightway  raised  over  him — 

"  Come  in,  come  in, 
Eternal  glory  thou  shalt  win." 

Macaulay,  howe^r,  here  is  wrong ;  and  has  sacrificed,  as  not 
unfrequently  is  his  manner,  the  truth  on  the  sharp  prong  of  an 
antithesis.  There  were  in  that  age  men  of  original  genius  be- 
sides Milton  and  Bunyan  ;  and  almost  all  of  them  had  baptized 
it  at  "  Siloa's  brook,  which  flowed  hard  by  the  oracle  of  God." 
Cromwell's  sword  was  a  "right  Jerusalem  blade."  Hobbes 
himself  had  studied  Scripture,  and  borrowed  from  it  the  names 
of  his  books,  "  Behemoth"  and  "  Leviathan."  If  a  Goliath  of 
Gath,  he  came  at  least  from  the  borders  of  the  land  of  promise. 
Jeremy  Taylor  soared  and  sang  like  Isaiah.     John  Scott  copied 


AND  EFFECTS  OF  SCRIPTURE  POETRT.         319 

the  severe  sententiousness  and  unshrinking  moral  anatomy  of 
James ;  and  had  besides  touches  of  subHraitj,  reminding  you 
of  the  loftier  of  the  minor  prophets.  Barrow  reasoned  as  if  he 
had  sat,  a  younger  disciple,  at  the  feet  of  Paul's  master,  Gama- 
liel. John  Howe  rose  to  calm  Platonic  heights,  less  through 
the  force  of  Plato's  attraction  than  that  of  the  beloved  disciple. 
And  Richard  Baxter  caught,  carried  into  his  pulpit,  and  sus- 
tained even  at  his  solitary  desk,  the  old  fury  of  pure  and  pas- 
sionate zeal  for  God,  hatred  at  sin,  and  love  to  mankind,  which 
shook  the  body  of  Jeremiah,  and  flamed  round  the  head  and 
beard,  and  shaggy  raiment  of  the  Baptist. 

In  the  century  that  succeeded — even  in  the  "godless  eigh- 
teenth century" — we  find  numerous  traces  of  the  power  of  the 
Bible  poetry.  The  allegories,  and  all  the  other  serious  papers 
of  Addison,  are  tinged  with  its  spirit.  lie  loves  not  so  much  its 
wilder  and  higher  strains  ;  he  gets  giddy  on  the  top  of  Lebanon, 
the  valley  of  dry  bones  he  treads  with  timid  steps,  and  his 
look  cast  up  toward  the  "  terrible  crystal,"  is  rather  of  fright 
than  of  admiration.  Well  able  to  appreciate  the  "  pleasures," 
he  shrinks  from  those  tingling  "  pains"  of  imagination.  Nor 
has  he  much  sympathy  with  that  all-absorbing  earnestness 
which  surrounded  the  prophets.  But  the  lovelier,  softer,  simpler, 
and  more  pensive  parts  of  the  Bible  are  very  dear  to  the  gentle 
"Spectator."  The  "Song"  throws  him  into  a  dim  and  lan- 
guishing ecstasy.  The  stories  of  Joseph  and  of  Ruth  are  the 
models  of  his  exquisite  simpHcity ;  and  the  8th  and  104th 
Psalins,  of  his  quiet  and  timorous  grandeur.  We  hear  of  Ad- 
dison "  hinting  a  fault,  and  hesitating  dislike  ;"  but,  more  truly, 
he  hints  a  beauty,  and  stammers  out  love.  He  says  himself 
the  finest  thing,  and  then  blushes,  as  if  detected  in  a  crime.  Or 
he  praises  an  obvious  and  colossal  merit  in  another ;  and  if  he 
has  done  it  abov/^  his  breath,  he  "  starts  at  the  sound  himself 
has  made."  His  encomiums  are  the  evening  whispers  of  lovers 
— low,  sweet,  and  trembling.  Thus  timidly  has  he  panegyrized 
the  beauties  of  the  Bible  ;  but  his  graceful  imitations,  and  par- 
ticularly his  vision  of  Mirza  (was  he  ashamed  of  it,  too,  and  there- 


320  COMPARATIVE    ESTIMATE,   INFLUENCEg, 

fore  left  it  a  fragment  ?) — so  Scriptural  in  its  spirit,  style,  acd 
nameless,  imconscious  charm — show  how  deeply  they  had  en- 
graved themselves  upon  his  heart. 

Even  Pope,  the  most  artificial  of  true  poets,  has  found  "his 
own"  in  Scripture  poetry.  Isaiah's  dark,  billowy  forests  have 
little  beauty  in  his  eye  ;  but  he  has  collected  the  flowers  which 
grow  beneath,  and  woven  them  into  that  lovely  garland,  the  "  Mes- 
siah." In  his  hands,  Homer  the  sublime  becomes  Homer  the 
brilliant,  and  Isaiah  the  majestic  becomes  Isaiah  the  soft  and  ele- 
gant. But,  as  Warton  remarks.  Pope's  "  Messiah"  owes  its  supe- 
riority to  Virgil's  "  Pollio,"  entirely  to  the  Hebrew  poets.  Young 
has  borrowed  little  from  them,  or  from  any  one  else ;  he  is  the 
most  English  original  poet  of  the  eighteenth  century  ;  his  poetry- 
comes  from  a  fierce  fissure  in  his  own  heart :  still,  the  torch  by 
which  he  lights  himself  through  the  "Night"  of  his  "Thoughts" 
has  been  kindled  at  the  New  Testament ;  and  his  "  Last  Day," 
and  his  "Paraphrase  on  Job,"  are  additional  proofs  of  the  as- 
cendency of  the  Hebrew  genius  over  his  own.  Thomson's  Hymn, 
is  avowedly  in  imitation  of  the  latter  Psalms  ;  and  his  mind,  iu 
its  sluggish  magnificence  and  lavish  ornaments,  is  distinctly 
Oriental.  Every  page  of  the  "  Seasons"  shows  an  imagination 
early  influenced  by  the  breadth,  fervor,  and  magniloquence  of 
prophetic  song.  Johnson,  too,  in  his  "  Rasselas,"  "  Rambler," 
and  "  Idler,"  is  often  highly  Oriental,  and  has  caught,  if  not  the 
inmost  spirit,  at  least  the  outer  roll  and  volume,  of  the  style  of 
the  prophets.  Burke,  in  his  "Regicide  Peace,"  approaches 
them  far  more  closely,  and  exhibits  their  spirit  as  well  as  style, 
their  fiery  earnestness,  their  abruptness,  their  impatience,  their 
profusion  of  met^hor,  their  "  doing  well  to  be  angry,  even  unto 
death,"  and  the  contortions  by  which  they  were  delivered  of 
their  message,  as  of  a  demon.  How  he  snatches  up  their  words, 
like  the  fallen  thunderbolts  of  the  Titan  war,  to  heave  them  at 
his  and  their  foes !  No  marvel  that  the  cold-blooded  eighteenth 
century  thought  him  mad.  Burns  admired  his  Bible  better 
than  he  ever  cared  to  acknowledge  ;  and  during  his  last  illness, 
at  the  Brow,  was  often  seen  with  it  in  his  hands.     Some  of  the 


AND  EFFECTS  OF  SCRIPTURE  POETRY.         821 

finest  passages  in  botli  his  prose  and  verse  are  colored  by 
Scripture,  and  leave  on  us  tlie  impression,  that,  had  he  looked 
at  it  more  through  his  own  naked  eagle-eye,  and  less  through 
the  false  media  of  systems,  and  commentaries,  and  critics,  he 
had  felt  it  to  be  the  most  humane,  the  most  liberal,  the  least 
aristocratic,  the  most  loving,  as  well  as  the  sublimest  and  the 
one  divine  book  in  the  world.  As  it  was,  that  dislike  to  it  nat- 
ural to  all  who  disobey  its  moral  precepts,  was  aggravated  in 
him  by  the  wretchedly  cold  critical  circles  among  whom  he  fell, 
who  in  their  hearts  preferred  Racine's  "  Athalie"  to  the  Lam- 
entations, and  "Douglas"  to  Job.  Hence  he  praises  Scrip- 
ture with  something  like  misgiving,  and  speaks  of  the  pomiwus 
language  of  the  Hebrew  bards,  an  epithet  which  he  means 
partly  in  praise,  but  partly  also  in  blame,  and  applies  to  the  ex- 
pression, as  simple  as  it  is  sublime,  "  Who  walketh  on  the  wings 
of  the  wind." 

Cowper,  the  most  timid  of  men,  was,  so  far  as  moral  courage 
went,  the  most  daring  of  poets.  He  was  an  oracle,  hid  not  in 
an  oak,  but  in  an  aspen.  His  courage,  indeed,  sometimes  seems 
the  courage  of  despair.  Hopeless  of  heaven,  he  fears  nothing  on 
earth.  "  How  can  I  fear,"  says  Prometheus,  "  who  am  never  to 
die  ?"  How  can  I  fear,  says  poor,  unhappy  Cowper,  who  shall 
never  be  saved  ?  And  in  nothing  do  we  see  this  boldness  more 
exemplified  than  in  his  "  Bibliolatry."  Grant  that  Bibliolatry 
it  was  ;  it  was  the  extreme  of  an  infinitely  worse  extreme.  In 
an  age  when  religion  w^as  derided,  when  to  quote  the  Bible  was 
counted  eccentric  folly,  when  Lowth  was  writing  books  to 
prove  the  prophets  "  elegant,"  a  nervous  hypochondriac  ven- 
tured to  prefer  them  by  infinitude  to  all  other  w^-iters,  defended 
their  every  letter,  drank  into  their  sternest  spirit,  and  poured 
out  strains  which,  if  not  in  loftiness  or  richness,  yet  in  truth, 
energy,  earnestness,  and  solemn  pathos,  seem  omitted  or  mis- 
laid "  burdens  of  the  Lord."  Blessings  on  this  noble  "  Casta- 
way," rising  momentarily  o'er  the  moonlit  surge,  which  he 
dreamed  ready  to  be  his  grave,  and  shouting  at  once  words  of 
praise  to  that   Luminary  which  was   never   to   rescue   him, 


S22  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,   INFLUENCES, 

and  words  of  warniug  to  those  approachiDg  the  same  fearful 
waters.  i 

In  the  nineteenth  century,  all  our  great  British  authors  have 
more  or  less  imbibed  fire  from  the  Hebrew  fountains.  There 
had  been,  in  the  mean  time,  a  reaction  in  the  favor  of  them,  as 
well  as  of  other  things  "  old."  For  fifty  years,  the  Bible,  like 
its  author,  had  been  exposed  on  a  cross  to  public  ignominy ; 
gigantic  apes,  like  Voltaire,  chattering  at  it ;  men  of  genius 
turned,  by  some  Circean  spell,  into  swine,  like  Mirabeau,  and 
Paine,  casting  filth  against  it ;  demoniacs,  whom  it  had  half- 
rescued  and  half-inspired,  like  Rousseau,  making  mouths  in  its 
face  ;  till,  as  darkness  blotted  out  the  heaven  above,  and  an 
earthquake  shook  Europe  around,  and  all  things  seemed  rush- 
ing into  ruin,  men  began  to  feel,  as  they  did  on  Calvary,  that 
this  was  all  for  Christ'' s  saTce  ;  and  they  trembled  ;  and  what 
their  brethren  there  could  not  or  did  not — they  stopped  ere  it  was 
too  late.  The  hieroj^hants  of  the  sacrilege,  indeed,  were  dead 
or  hopelessly  hardened,  but  their  followers  paused  in  time  ;  and 
the  mind  of  the  civilized  world  was  shaken  back  into  an  atti- 
tude of  respect,  if  not  of  belief,  in  the  Book  of  Jesus. 

This  reaction  was  for  a  season  complete.  No  poetry,  no 
fiction,  no  belles  lettres,  no  philosophy,  was  borne  with,  unless 
it  professed  homage  to  Christianity.  And  even  after,  through 
the  influence  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  and  other  causes, 
there  was  a  partial  revival  of  the  skeptical  spirit,  it  never  ven- 
tured on  such  daring  excesses  again.  It  bowed  before  the  Bible, 
although  it  was  sometimes  with  the  bow  of  a  polite  assassin,  who 
had  studied  murder  and  manner  both  in  the  south. 

Nay,  more,  Scripture  poetry  began  to  be  used  as  a  model  more 
extensively  than  even  heretofore,  alike  by  those  who  believed  and 
those  who  disbelieved  its  supreme  authority.  Wordsworth,  Cole- 
ridge, and  Southey,  we  name  first,  because  they  never  lost  faith 
in  it  as  a  word,  or  admiration  of  it  as  a  poem  ;  and  hence  its  lan- 
guage and  its  element  seem  more  natural  to  them  than  to  others. 
Campbell  was  attracted  to  it  originally  by  his  exquisite  poetical 
taste.    He  came  forth  to  see  the  "  Rainbow,"  like  some  of  the 


AND    EFFECTS    OF    SCRIPTURE    POETRY.  323 

world's  "  gray  fathers,"  because  it  was  beautiful ;  but  ulti- 
mately, we  rejoice  to  know,  be  felt  it  to  be  tbe  "  rainbow  of  the 
covenant."  He  grew  up  to  the  measure  and  the  stature  of  his 
own  poetry.  Moore,  like  Pope,  has  been  fascinated  by  its 
flowers  ;  and  we  find  him  now  imitating  the  airy  gorgeousness 
of  the  "  Song  of  Songs,"  and  now  the  diamond-pointed  keen- 
ness of  the  Book  of  Ecclesiastes.  Scott,  as  a  writer,  knew  the 
force  of  Scripture  diction  ;  as  a  man,  the  hold  of  Scripture  truth 
upon  the  Scottish  heart ;  as  a  poet,  the  unique  inspiration  which 
flowed  from  the  Rock  of  Ages  ;  and  has,  in  his  works,  made  a 
masterly  use  of  all  this  varied  knowledge.  Rebecca  might  have 
been  the  sister  of  Solomon's  spouse.  Her  prose  speeches  rise 
as  to  the  sound  of  cymbals,  and  her  "  Hymn"  is  immortal  as  a 
psalm  of  David.  David  Deans  is  only  a  little  lower  than  the 
patriarchs  ;  and  time  would  fail  us  to  enumerate  the  passages 
in  his  better  tales,  which,  approaching  near  the  hne  of  high 
excellence,  are  carried  beyond  it  by  the  dextrous  and  sudden 
use  of  "  thoughts  that  breathe,"  or  "  words  that  burn,"  from  the 
Book  of  God.  Byron,  Godwin,  Shelley,  and  Hazlitt,  even,  are 
deeply  indebted  to  the  Bible.  Byron,  in  painting  "  dark  bo- 
soms," has  often  availed  himself  of  the  language  of  that  book, 
which  is  a  discerner  of  the  thoughts  and  intents  of  the  heart. 
Many  of  his  finest  poems  are  just  expansions  of  that  strong  line 
he  has  borrowed  from  it — - 

"  The  worm  that  can  not  sleep,  and  never  dies." 

His  "  Hebrew  Melodies"  have  sucked  out  their  sweetness 
from  the  Psalms ;  and  "  Cain,"  his  noblest  production,  employs 
against  God  the  power  it  has  derived  from  his  Book.  Godwin 
was  originally  a  preacher,  and  his  high  didactic  tone,  his 
'measured  and  solemn  march,  as  well  as  many  images  and  many 
quotations,  especially  in  "  St.  Leon"  and  "  Mandeville,"  show 
that  the  influence  of  his  early  studies  was  permanent.  When 
Shelley  was  drowned,  it  was  rumored  that  he  had  a  copy  of 
the  Bible  next  his  heart ;  "  and,"  says  Byron,  "  it  would  have 
been  no  wonder,  for  he  was  a  great  admirer  of  it  as  a  composi- 


324  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,   INFLUENCES, 

tion.*'  The  rumor  was  not  literally  correct,  but  was  so  roythi- 
cally.  It  is  clear  to  us  that  Shelley  was  far  advanced  on  his 
way  to  Christianity  ere  he  died,  and  was  learning  not  only  to 
love  the  Bible  as  a  composition,  but  to  appreciate  its  unearthly 
principles — that  disinter^'sted  heroism  especially  which  charac- 
terizes Christ  and  his  Apostles.  Indeed,  he  was  constituted 
rather  to  sympathize  with  certain  parts  of  its  morale,  than  with 
the  simple  and  terse  style  of  its  writing.  It  was  the  more  mys- 
terious and  imaginative  portion  of  it  which  he  seems  princi- 
pally to  have  admired,  and  which  excited  the  rash  emulation 
of  his  genius,  when  he  projected  a  variation  of  "  Job."  Haz- 
litt's  allusions  to  Scripture  are  incessant,  and  are  to  us  the  most 
interesting  passages  in  his  works.  He  was  a  clergyman's  son  ; 
and  in  youth,  the  Bible  had  planted  stings  in  his  bosom,  which 
none  of  his  after-errors,  in  thought  or  life,  were  able  to  pluck 
out.  "  Heaven  lay  about  him  in  his  infancy,"  and  his  compar-  , 
ison  of  the  Bible  with  Homer,  and  his  picture  of  the  effects  of 
its  translation  into  English,  show  that  the  earnest  though  erring 
man  never  altogether  saw  its  glory 

"  Die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day." 

This  is  one  of  the  features  in  Hazhtt's  writings  which  exalt 
them  above  Lord  Jeffrey's.  Scotchman  though  he  was,  we  do 
not  recollect  one  eloquent  or  sincere-seeming  sentence  from  his 
pen  about  the  beauties  of  the  Bible.  Such  writers  as  Sheridan, 
Eogers,  Alison,  Dugald  Stewart,  Lord  Erskine,  William  Ten- 
nant,  Mrs.  Hemans,  and  a  hundred  others,  are  suffocated  in 
flowers ;  but  not  a  word,  during  all  his  long  career,  from  the 
autocrat  of  criticism,  about  Moses,  Isaiah,  Job,  or  John.  To 
have  praised  their  jDoetry,  might  have  seemed  to  sanction  their 
higher  pretensions;  and  might,  too,  have  reflected  indirect 
credit  upon  that  school  of  fervid  poets,  who  were  sitting  at  the 
feet  of  Jewish  men,  as  well  as  of  Cumberland  mountains.  Need 
we  name,  finally,  Chalmers  and  Irving — those  combinations 
of  the  prophet  of  the  old,  and  the  preacher  of  the  new  economy  ? 


AND   EFFECTS    OF   SCRIPTURE    POETRY.  325 

Our  living  writers  have,  in  general,  shown  a  sympathy  with 
the  Hebrew  genius.  We  speak  not  merely  of  clergymen,  whose 
verdict  might  by  some  be  called  interested,  and  whose  enthu- 
siasm might  unjustly  be  thought  put  on  with  their  cloaks. 
And  yet  we  must  refer  to  Millman's  "  Fall  of  Jerusalem,"  and 
to  Croly's  magnificent  "  Salathiel."  Keble,  too,  and  Trench, 
Kingsley,  William  Anderson,  are  a  few  out  of  many  names  of 
men  who,  while  preaching  the  Bible  doctrine,  have  not  forgotten 
its  literary  glories,  as  subjects  of  earnest  imitation  and  praise. 
But  the  Levites  outnumber  and  outshine  the  priests  in  their 
service  to  the  bards  of  the  Bible.  Isaac  Taylor's  gorgeous 
figures  are  elaborately  copied  from  those  of  Scripture,  although 
they  sometimes,  in  comparison  with  them,  remind  you  of  that 
root  of  which  Milton  speaks — 

'     "  The  leaf  was  darkish,  and  had  prickles  in  it, 
But  in  another  country,  as  he  said, 
Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  in  this  soil" 

The  Eastern  spirit  is  in  them  ;  they  want  only  the  Eastern  day. 
Sir  James  Stephen  has  less  both  of  the  spirit  and  the  genuine 
color,  ardent  as  his  love  of  the  Hebrews  is.  Macaulay  quotes 
Scripture,  as  Burdett,  in  Parliament,  was  wont  to  quote  Shak- 
speare — always  with  triumphant  rhetorical  effect,  and  seems  once, 
at  least,  to  have  really  loved  its  literature.  Professor  Wilson 
approaches  more  closely  than  any  modern  since  Burke,  to  that 
wild  prophetic  movement  of  style  and  manner  which  the  bards 
of  Israel  exhibit — nay,  more  nearly  than  even  Burke,  since 
with  Wilson  it  is  a  perpetual  afflatus  :  he  is  like  the  he-goat  in 
Daniel,  who  came  from  the  west,  and  touched  not  the  ground ; 
his  "Tale  of  Expiation,"  for  instance,  is  a  current  of  fire. 
Thomas  Carlyle  concentrates  a  fury,  enhanced  by  the  same 
literary  influences,  into  deeper,  straiter,  more  molten  and  ter- 
rible torrents.  Thomas  Aird  has  caught  the  graver,  calmer, 
and  more  epic  character  of  the  Historical  Books,  especially  in 
his  "Nebuchadnezzar,"  which   none  but  one  deep  in  Daniel 


326  COMPARATIVE   ESTIMATE,    INFLUENCES, 

could  have  written.     From  another  poem  of  his,  entitled  "  He- 
rodion  and  Azala,"  we  quote  two  etchings  of  prophets  : — 

"  Winged  with  prophetic  ecstasies,  behold 
The  son  of  Amos,  beautifully  bold, 
Borne  like  the  sythed  wing  of  the  eagle  proud, 
That  shears  the  winds,  and  climbs  the  storied  cloud 
Aloft  sublime !     And  through  the  crystaline, 
Glories  upon  its  lighted  head  doth  shine. 
*  *  *  -jfr  *  *  * 

Behold  !  behold,  uplifted  through  the  air, 

The  swift  Ezekiel,  by  his  lock  of  hair  ! 

Near  burned  the  Appearance,  undefinedly  dread, 

"Whose  hand  put  forth,  upraised  him  by  the  head. 

Within  its  fierce  reflection,  cast  abroad, 

The  Prophet's  forehead  like  a  furnace  glowed. 

From  terror  half,  half  from  his  vehement  mind. 

His  lurid  hair  impetuous  streamed  behind." 

From  a  hint  or  two  in  Scripture,  he  has  built  up  his  vision 
of  hell,  in  the  "  Devil's  Dream  upon  Mount  Acksbeck,"  a  vision 
mysterious,  fiery,  and  yet  distinct,  definite,  and  fixed  as  a 
frosted  minster  shining  in  the  moonlight.  But  in  his  "  De- 
moniac," he  absolutely  pierces  into  the  past  world  of  Palestine, 
and  brings  it  up  with  all  its  throbbing  life  and  thauraaturgic 
energies,  its  earth  quaking  below  the  footsteps,  and  its  sky- 
darkening  above  the  death,  of  the  Son  of  God. 

Of  the  rising  poets  of  the  day,  "  two  will  we  mention  dearer 
than  the  rest ;"  dearer,  too,  in  part,  because  they  have  sought 
their  inspiration  at  its  deepest  source — Bailey,  of  "  Festus," 
and  Yendys,  of  "  The  Roman."  This  is  not  the  place  to  dilate 
on  their  poetic  merits.  We  point  to  them  now,  because,  in  an 
age  when  so  many  young  men  and  young  poets  are  forsaking 
belief  in  the  oracular  and  divine  inspiration  of  the  Bible,  they 
have  rallied  around  the  old  shrine,  have  expressed  their  trust  in 
that  old  and  blessed  hope  of  the  Gospel,  and  may  be  hailed  as 
morning  stars,  prognosticating  the  rising  of  a  new  "  day  of  the 
Lord."     May  their  light,  already  brilliant  and  far  seen,  shine 


AND    EFFECTS    OF   SCRIPTURE   POETRY.  32'? 

**  more  and  more,"  not  only  into  its  own,  but  into  the  world's 
"  perfect  day." 

We  have  not  nearly  exhausted  the  text  of  this  chapter,  nor 
alluded  to  a  tithe  of  the  writers  in  this  or  in  other  lands,  who 
have  transmitted  their  deep  impressions  of  Scripture  poetry  to 
others.  But  it  may  now  be  asked,  is  not  all  this  exceedingly 
hopeful  ?  What  would  you  more  ?  Is  not  the  Bible  now  an 
acknowledged  power  ?  Is  it  not  doing  its  work  silently  and 
effectually,  through  the  many  men  of  genius  who  are  conduct- 
ing its  electric  force  ?  Must  not  its  future  career,  therefore,  be 
one  of  clear  and  easy  triumph  ?  So,  indeed,  it  might  at  first 
sight  appear ;  but  there  have  arisen  certain  dark  and  lowering 
shadows  in  the  sky,  threatening  to  overcloud  the  sun-path  of 
tke  Book,  if  not  to  darken  it  altogether ;  and  to  a  calm  and 
Cr>Jp»did,  though  brief  and  imperfect,  examination  of  these,  we 
T  ropose  devoting  our  closing  chapter. 


CONCLUSION. 

FUTURE  DESTINY  OF  THE   BIBLE. 

"No  theories,  so  far  as  we  are  aware,  have  been  openly  pro- 
mulgated, or  elaborately  defended,  upon  exactly  this  question  in 
the  present  day.  But,  from  the  mass  of  prevailing  opinions  on 
cognate  topics,  there  exhale  certain  floating  notions,  which  it 
may  be  perhaps  of  some  importance  to  catch  in  language,  and 
to  try  by  analysis. 

Let  a  quiet  and  earnest  inquirer  take  up  a  copy  of  the  Scrip 
tures,  and  ask  himself,  "  What  is  to  be  the  future  history  of 
this  book  ?"  We  suspect  the  following  alternatives  would 
come  up  before  him  : — It  may,  by  the  progress  of  science  and 
philosophy,  be  exploded  as  a  mass  of  impostures,  myths,  and 
lies  ;  or  it  may,  shorn  of  its  fabulous  rays,  be  reduced  to  its  true 
level,  as  a  revelation  of  spiritual  truth ;  or  it  may,  owing  to  its 
great  antiquity,  and  the  leaden  mists  which  lie  around  its  cradle, 
continue,  as  it  is  at  present  to  many  scholars  and  philosophers, 
a  book  of  dubious  authorship  and  truth,  and  may,  perhaps,  be 
thrown  aside  as  a  work  for  ages  popular,  but  now  obsolete, 
without  any  definite  verdict  having  been  passed  upon  its  claims  ; 
or  it  may  be  fulfilled,  certified,  supplemented,  and,  in  a  great 
measure,  superseded  by  a  new  and  fuller  revelation. 

The  first  of  those  conjectures,  for  we  freely  grant  that  a  little 
of  the  conjectural  adheres  to  more  than  one  of  the  theories,  is 
so  gloomy,  and  so  improbable,  that  we  must  apologize  for  nam- 
ing, and  still  more  for  seeking  to  refute  it.  The  Bible  a  mass 
of  myths  and  impostures,  alternating — as  though  JEsop's  Fables 
and  Munchausen's  Travels  were  bound  up  together  in  one  mon- 


FUTURE   DESTINY    OF   THE    BIBLE.  329 

strous  medley,  more  monstrously  pretending  to  be  the  Book  of 
God  !  Myths,  indeed,  fables,  stories,  passages  manifestly  meta- 
phorical, poetic  hyperboles,  and  those  of  every  sort,  there  are 
in  Scripture ;  but  they  are  all  manifestly  and  by  contrast  so. 
The  body  of  the  book  is  either  historical  or  doctrinal ;  and  to 
"charge"  figure  upon  figure  in  such  a  clumsy  stjle,  were  no 
true  heraldry.  Jotham's  story  of  the  "  trees"  is  a  fable,  but  is 
Jotham  himself?  The  parables  of  Jesus  are  truth-possessed 
fictions ;  but  is  Jesus,  too,  a  figure  of  speech  ;  or,  at  least,  the 
mere  Alexander  Selkirk  to  the  teeming  brain  of  an  ancient 
Defoe  ?  No  !  the  historic  and  didactic  element  in  Scripture  is 
a  layer  of  light  piercing  through  all  the  rest,  and  at  once  ex- 
pounding and  preserving  the  whole.  Indeed,  in  the  double 
form  of  Scripture,  we  see  a  pledge  of  its  perpetuity.  TJie 
figurative  beauty  above  glorifies  the  truth,  and  the  hard  truth 
below  solidifies  the  hovering  splendor.  And,  besides,  the  ques- 
tion is  irresistible — were  the  Bible  such  a  wild,  accidental, 
anomalous  mixture,  could  it  have  produced  such  miracles  of 
heahng  power,  and  have  so  long  remained  unanalyzed  ?  Even 
granting  that  strange  unassimilated  elements  have  met  together 
in  it,  have  they  not  formed  a  whole  so  united,  so  well-cemented, 
that  ages  have  conspired  to  own  in  it  the  hand  of  God  ?  The 
difficulty  of  the  compound  was  such,  that  it  must  have  issued 
either  in  a  disgraceful  failure,  or  in  a  success,  the  wonder  of  the 
universe !  Could  it  have  been  made  by  any  other  but  a  divine 
hand? 

But  here  a  second  theorist  steps  in,  and  says,  "  I  grant  the 
book,  as  a  whole,  true.  I  recognize  your  distinction  between  its 
myths  and  its  histories,  its  figures  and  its  doctrines ;  but  I  find 
in  it  many  records,  pretending  to  be  historical,  and  lying  mixed 
with  the  histories,  which  I  can  not  believe.  I  meet  with  mir- 
acles !  And  these  seem  to  me  such  monstrous  violations  of 
the  laws  of  nature,  so  opposed  to  general  experience,  bearing 
such  a  suspicious  family-likeness  to  the  portents  and  prodigies 
found  in  the  history  of  all  early  faiths,  and  encumbered  in 
their  details  with  such  difficulties,  that  I  am  compelled  to  deem 


330  rirruRE  destiny  of  the  bible. 

them  fabulous,  and  to  expect  and  accept  an  analysis  which  shall 
separate  them  from  the  real  and  solid  principles  of  Chris- 
tianity." 

Upon  this  subject  of  miracles,  let  us  proceed  to  sum  up  what 
we  conceive  to  be  the  truth,  in  the  following  remarks : — 

Now  we  grant  that,  firstly,  miracles  must  be  tried  not  only 
by  the  test  of  the  evidence  in  their  favor,  but  by  the  character 
of  the  system  they  were  wrought  to  prove,  which  introduces  a 
new  element  into  the  discussion,  nay,  makes  it  a  discussion  en- 
tirely new.  Secondly,  That,  instead  of  miracles  being  the 
strongest  evidence  of  Christianity,  Christianity  appears  to  us  a 
far  stronger  proof  of  miracles :  a  book  so  divine  as  the  Bible 
can  not  be  supposed  mistaken  in  its  facts.  Thirdly,  That  the 
chief  things  in  Scripture  whicli  stagger  the  Christian  are  not 
likely  to  be  the  most  powerful  in  convincing  the  enemy. 
Fourthly,  That  miracles  seldom  seem  to  have  made  converts 
either  among  those  who  originally  witnessed  them,  or  among 
those  who  have  since  heard  the  echo  of  their  report.  And 
fifthly.  That  miracles  were  wrought,  not  so  much  to  convert  in- 
dividuals, as  to  decorate  and  magnify  the  system,  which  clothed 
itself  even  in  its  cradle  with  those  awful  ornaments,  rung  no 
bell  save  the  "  great  bell  of  the  universe,"  and  used  no  playthings 
but  the  thunderbolts  of  God.  But  then,  we  ask,  if  miracles  be 
Mse,  how  comes  it  that  they  are  connected  with  what  is  granted 
to  be  substantially  a  divine  revelation  ?  Again,  we  maintain 
that  the  difference  between  the  prodigies  of  profane  history  and 
the  miracles  of  Jesus  is  immense :  the  latter  were  attested  by 
the  character  of  the  person,  the  character  of  the  fciith,  and  the 
pure  and  benevolent  purposes  for  which  they  were  wrought,  not 
to  speak  of  the  confession  of  some  of  the  adversaries,  and  the 
impossibility  of  explaining  otherwise  the  instant  attention  and 
impetus  the  faith  of  the  Carpenter  received.  And,  once  again,  we 
deny  that  miracles  can  be  explained,  as  the  able  and  Christian 
author  of  "  Alton  Locke"  tries  to  do,  by  the  operation  of  un- 
known natural  causes,  or  resolved,  with  Carlyle,  into  "Natural 
Supernaturalism."    For,  first,  this  does  not  remove  the  diffi' 


FUTURE    DESTINY    OF   THE    BIBLE.  331 

culty — ^How  came  Jesus  to  the  knowledge  of  such  occult  prin- 
ciples— principles  no  philosopher  has  since  discovered  ?  Sec- 
ondly, Is  not  the  multiplication  of  bread  in  the  miracle  of  the 
loaves  and  fishes  very  similar  to  the  "  supplying  of  an  ampu- 
tated, limb  ?"  *  Is  not  each  a  creation  ?  and  who  but  a  God  can 
create  ?  Knowledge  of  occult  principles  might  have  enabled 
Christ  to  heal  obstinate  diseases,  but  not  positively  to  make 
something  out  of  nothing !  Thirdly,  Does  not  the  restoration 
of  life  to  a  dead  and  putrid  body  seem  to  run  altogether  coun- 
ter to  nature's  course?  for, although  nature  revives  and  restores, 
it  is  never  the  "same  body" — she  deals  in  transformation,  not 
resurrection.  Wherefore  the  raisino-  of  Lazarus  seems  desio*ned 
as  a  deliberate  anomaly,  a  grand  and  sovereign  setting  aside  of 
a  natural  law,  to  produce  a  moral  effect.  Fourthly,  Is  not  the 
exceptional  aspect  of  miracles  a  pro'of  that  they  were  rather  a 
temporary  triumph  over  nature,  than  an  evolution  of  some  of 
its  own  inner  laws  ?  Why  did  miracles  cease  ?  Why  did  the 
knowledge  of  those  occult  principles  die  out  of  the  Church  ? 
And  why  is  the  reappearance  of  miracles  predicted  always  in 
connection  with  the  return  of  the  Savior  from  heaven,  when 
HE  shall  raise  the  dead,  and  convene  before  him  all  nations, 
thus  again,  through  his  divine  power,  triumphing  over  the  laws 
of  nature  ?  If  such  astonishing  future  changes  had  been  the 
mere  blossoming  of  natural  principles,  they  had  not  been  uni- 
formly traced  to  the  personal  agency  of  Christ  Jesus.  Fifthly, 
This  view  of  miracles,  as  mysterious,  occasional,  and  fluctuating 
infractions  of  natural  laws,  is,  we  think,  most  in  keeping  with 
the  actual  history  of  Christ.  Had  his  powers  of  working  mir- 
acles sprung  from  his  knowledge  of  occult  principles,  it  had 
always  been  alike,  and  had  been  exerted  in  a  more  systematic 
manner,  and  on  a  broader  scale.  As  it  was,  it  is  used  with 
severe  economy,  and  is  preceded  sometimes  by  ardent  and 
yearning  prayer  to  the  Father,  as  if  he  were  reluctant  to  inter- 
fere with  the  solemn  and  measured  roll  of  his  laws.  He  says, 
too,  repeatedly,  "  I  am  come  to  do  the  ivorJcs  of  my  Father"-— 
*  This  Mr,  Eingsley  specially  desiderates, 


332  FUTURE    DESTINY    OF   THE    BIBLE. 

not  to  observe  his  laws,  but  to  perform  works  as  distinctly  crea- 
tive and  divine  as  his  fiat,  "  Be  light,  and  there  was  light." 
Sixthly,  This  power  of  suspending  the  laws  of  his  Father's 
creation — a  power  possessed  by  Christ,  and  bestowed,  through 
him,  on  his  apostles,  as  it  had  been  on  some  of  the  prophets — 
is  quite  in  keeping  with  his  peculiar  and  abnormal  character,  as 
being  the  strangest  and  sublimest  birth  in  the  universe,  bone  of 
our  bone,  and  flesh  of  our  flesh,  and  yet  the  offspring  of  the 
miraculous  conception,  and  the  Son  of  the  Blessed — who  is  still 
a  glorious  anomaly  in  heaven  as  he  was  on  earth — and  with  tho 
wondrous  and  solitary  work  which  was  given  him  to  do.  "We 
never  see  in  him  the  philosopher  working  his  way  to  his  result, 
upon  natural  principles — but  the  Son  walking  in  his  Father's 
house,  and  having  "  authority"  to  issue  what  commandments, 
to  diseases  or  demons,  to  waves  or  winds,  to  life  or  death,  it 
pleased  him. 

But  why,  Alton  Locke  will  ask  again,  should  the  laws  of  na- 
ture ever  require  suspension  ?  When  once  satisfied  of  the  fact, 
many  reasons  occur  to  account  for  it.  One  may  be,  to  show 
that  these  laws  are  not  eternal  and  unchangeable,  and  that  it  is 
thus  impossible  to  confound  them  with  their  author — for  what 
is  not  eternal  and  unchangeable  can  not  be  God.  Miracles  con- 
fute Pantheism.  All  can  not  be  God,  since  here  is  something 
which  is  not,  in  the  Pantheist's  sense,  God,  and  yet  has  been. 
Miracles  prove  the  dependence  of  matter  upon  God,  who  in  an 
instant  can  repeal  his  most  steadfast  laws.  Miracles  evince  the 
power  of  spirit  over  matter.  What  can  show  us  this  in  a  more 
striking  light,  than  the  sight  of  Jesus  rebuking  the  thousand 
brute  waves  of  the  Galilean  lake  ?  Miracles  prove  God's  bound- 
less love  to  the  family  of  man  ;  for  it  was  for  his  sake  that  such 
a  power  was  intrusted  to  his  Son.  Miracles  represent  God  as 
possessing  a  liberty  to  act,  if  we  may  use  the  expression,  in 
difierent  styles  at  different  times — now  in  that  of  regular  and 
unvaried  sequence,  and  again  in  sudden  and  mystic  change.  A 
hundred  other  reasons  of  a  similar  nature  might  be  adduced. 

Have  these  miracles,  then,  been  wrought  1    Devoutly  do  we 


FUTURE    DESTINY    OF    THE    BIBLE.  333 

believe  that  they  have  ;  but  we  are  not  at  all  sanguine  of  their 
power  as  an  argument  with  the  infidel.  Till  he  has  learned  to 
appreciate  the  moral  and  spiritual  aspects  of  the  religion  of 
Jesus,  he  will  continue,  we  fear,  to  stumble  at  that  old  stum- 
bhng-stone.  But  if  he  persist  in  his  insolent  assertion,  that  the 
miraculous  part  of  Christianity  shall  soon  be  shorn  away  as  fab- 
ulous, we  must  answer,  "  Thou  fool,  who  art  thou  that  rephest 
against  God.  He  that  wrought  miracles  in  the  past,  is  able  to 
work  more,  and  mightier,  in  the  future  ;  and  beware  thou  lest 
they  be  miracles  of  judgment.  The  Savior  who  came  last  in 
swaddling-bands,  is  again  to  be  revealed  in  flaming  fire,  taking 
vengeance  upon  them  who  know  not  God,  and  obey  not  the 
gospel  of  Jesus  Christ." 

Suppose  that  the  credit  of  the  supernatural  portion  of  the 
Bible  were  to  fall,  what  would  be  the  general  results  ?  First, 
Those  who  base  their  belief  in  Scripture  on  its  miracles,  would 
rush  into  skepticism.  Secondly,  Those  who  did  not,  would  yet 
be  surrounded  by  peculiar  and  formidable  difficulties — by  such 
questions  as,  why  has  God  produced  such  deep  and  general 
effects  by  a  tissue  of  falsehoods  ?  and  why  has  he  connected 
that  tissue  so  closely  with  a  web  of  truth  ?  must  not  the  truth, 
power,  and  beauty  so  misplaced,  be  human  instead  of  divine  ? 
Yes,  the  Book  would  instantly  be  degraded,  if  not  destroyed — 
discrowned,  if  not  banished.  The  strange  mantle  it  had  worn, 
with  all  those  starry  and  mysterious  ornaments,  would  fall  from 
it ;  it  could  scarcely  be  recognized  as  the  same  ;  and,  if  ceasing 
to  .be  a  "  Prince,"  would  it  remain  a  "  Savior  ?" 

Others — probably,  however,  a  small  class — may  be  inclined 
to  support  a  third  theory  ;  this,  namely,  that  we  never  can 
satisfy  ourselves  now,  more  than  we  have  done,  as  to  the  claims 
of  the  Bible — that  the  question  is  a  moot  and  insoluble  point, 
like  those  of  the  "  Iron  Mask,"  the  guilt  of  Queen  Mary,  and  the 
authorship  of  "  Junius" — that  it  is  a  question  which  is  likely  to 
decline  in  interest,  as  man  becomes  more  advanced  in  culture — 
and  that  by  and  by  it  may  be  dropped  silently  out  of  mind,  like 
the  controversies  of  the  schoolmen,  without  having  attained  any 


S34  S^tTtTRE   DESTINY    OP   THE   BiCtE. 

definite  or  absolute  resolution.  But  it  is  surely  not  probable 
that  God  would  allow  a  question  involving  such  vast  and  vital 
interests  to  remain  unsettled,  or  to  pass  into  the  dim  limbo  of 
unresolved  and  half-forgotten  logomachies.  Hitherto,  the  result 
of  all  new  discoveries  has  been  to  dart  new  notice,  new  hght, 
new  interest,  upon  the  pages  of  this  marvelous  book,  which, 
hke  the  full  moon,  shines  undimmed,  whatever  stars  come  up 
the  midnight.  v(Iii  her  majestic  simpHcity,  she  fears  no  rival 
among  all  those  new  telescopic  orbs,  which  are  arriving  every 
hour,  and  can  suffer  no  eclipse  from  them  ;  and  neither  need  the 
Bible,  in  its  pure,  and  mild,  and  crystal  sphere,  be  alarmed  at 
all  the  starry  revelations  of  science.)  Nor  will  man  allow  this 
question  to  sink  into  obscurity,  or  to  be  buried  in  everlasting 
indifference.  Nay,  he  seems  even  now  to  be  girding  himself  for 
a  more  minute,  earnest,  and  persevering  inquiry  into  the  claims 
of  the  Book.  To  solve  this  problem,  many  of  the  noblest  of  tho 
race  have  sat  down,  like  Archimedes,  gluing  themselves  to  the 
task,  determined  to  conquer  or  to  die.  This  mighty  and  awful 
shade,  like  the  "  dead  majesty  of  buried  Denmark,"  such  bold 
watchers  must  at  all  hazards  bespeak,  to  ascertain  its  actual  na- 
ture, and  to  gather  real  tidings ;  this  thing,  so  majestical,  they 
must  cross,  though  it  blast  them.  The  Bible  forgotten  !  There 
never  was  an  ao-e  when  there  was  less  dano;er  of  that.  It  is  not 
merely  that  its  unequaled  literary  power  secures  its  vitality, 
but  over  that,  as  a  professed  revelation  from  God,  there  has 
begun  a  keen,  hotly-contested  fight,  closing  every  day  into 
deadlier  earnestness,  and  which,  at  no  very  distant  period,  prom- 
ises to  be  finally  decided. 

Such  is  the  threefold  skeptical  expectation.  It  is,  in  all  its 
phases,  melancholy,  and  tends  to  teach  nothing  but  an  evangel 
of  despair.  Should  the  Bible  sink,  what  remains  ?  Where  are  we 
to  find  a  substitute  for  it  ?  What  manual  of  duty  so  broad  and 
practical  ?  What  narrative  so  broad,  humane,  and  melting  ? 
What  book  of  genius  so  full  of  the  pith  and  lustihood  of  pri* 
meval  manhood  ?  Where  another  such  two-edged  sword,  baring, 
on  the  one  side,  the  bosom  of  God,  and,  on  the  other,  the  hear/ 


FUTURE   DESTINY    OF   THE   BIBLE.  835 

of  man  ?  Where  a  book  with  such  a  Gospel  ?  Where  another 
such  combination  of  truth  so  humble,  power  so  meek,  virtue  so 
merciful,  poetry  so  holy,  beauty  so  condescending,  celestial 
wisdom  so  affable  ?  A  book  of  which  all  this  is  true  found  a 
cheat — an  old  wives'  fable — swarming  with  lies,  or  saved  only 
from  the  charge,  under  the  plea  of  the  dotage  of  age  I  Alas  ! 
alas!  And  suppose  a  substitute  found — suppose,  by  some 
conjunction  of  mental  forces,  extraordinary  as  that  of  material, 
which  is  said  to  have  produced  the  deluge,  another  book  writ- 
ten, equally  wide,  and  equally  intense,  equally  sublime  and 
equally  useful,  equally  profound  and  equally  plain — which 
should  mete  the  ocean  of  this  troubled  age  in  its  span,  and 
weigh  its  great  mountains  and  its  small  dust  of  doubts  and 
difficulties  ahke  in  its  balance,  and  be  hailed  by  exulting  mil- 
lions as  divine — where  the  security  for  its  permanent  power  ? 
v/ho  should  dare  to  say  that  it,  too,  might  not  outlive  itself — 
wax  old,  and  vanish  away,  after  enduring  the  pains  and  penal- 
ties, the  contempt  and  insults,  which  track  dishonored  age  to 
the  dust,  and  cause  it  to  cry  to  the  rocks  of  neglect  and  to  the 
mountains  of  obscurity  to  cover  it  ?  Then,  too,  might  the  Bible 
say  to  it — "  Art  thou  also  become  weak  as  I  ?  I,  too,  once 
caused  my  terror  in  the  land  of  the  living,  and  was  even  be- 
lieved to  stretch  my  scepter  over  the  shadowy  mansions  of  the 
dead." 

As  never  book  so  commanded,  roused,  affi'ighted,  gladdened, 
beautified,  and  solemnized  the  world,  so  the  horrors  of  its  fall 
are  too  frightful  almost  for  conception.  We  were  borne  away 
in  vision  to  see  this  great  sight — in  vision  only,  thank  God ! 
ever  to  be  seen.  We  saw  this  new  plague  of  darkness  passing 
over  the  world.  As  it  passed,  there  was  heard  the  shriek  of 
children,  mourning  for  their  New  Testaments,  and  refusing  to  be 
comforted  because  they  were  not.  There  arose  next,  the  wail 
of  women  :  of  mothers,  whose  hope  for  their  dead  babes  was  put 
out ;  of  wives,  whose  desire  for  the  salvation  of  their  husbands 
was  cruelly  quenched ;  of  aged  matrons,  whose  last  comfort,  as 
they  trembled  on  the  verge  of  eternity,  was  extinguished.  Then 


335  FUTURE   DESTINY    OF   THE   BIBLE. 

came  a  voice,  saying,  "  Philantliropists,  abandon  your  plans  of 
universal  amelioration,  for  the  glad  tidings  to  all  people  have 
died  avfay  !  Preachers  of  the  word,  pause  on  your  pulpit 
stairs  :  your  message  is  a  lie  !  Poets,  cut  your  gorgeous  dreams 
of  a  Millennium  in  sunder :  they  are  but  dreams,  and  the  dream- 
book  is  dead  !  Missionaries,  throw  down  your  sickles :  the  '  end 
of  the  world'  ye  may  see,  its  '  harvest'  never  !  Poor  Negroes, 
CafFrarians,  and  Hindoos,  look  no  more  upward  to  those 
teachers,  once  deemed  to  drop  down  honey  and  milk  on  your 
parched  lips  :  they  are  the  retailers  of  exploded  fables  !  Mille- 
narians — ye  who  hoped  that  the  world  was  soon,  to  be  touched 
by  the  golden  spur  of  Jesus,  and  to  spring  onward  to  a  glorious 
goal — '  why  stand  ye  gazing  up  into  heaven  ?'  Heaven  there  is 
none,  and  no  Savior  is  preparing  to  descend  !  Bearers  of  that 
corpse  to  the  grave,  cast  it  down,  and  flee;  for  he  that  f(ill 
asleep  in  Jesus  fell  asleep  in  a  lie,  and  if  ye  sow  in  hope,  ye  are 
liars,  too !  Poor  prisoner  in  the  cause  of  humanity — poor  slave, 
turn  not  your  red  and  swollen  eyes  to  heaven,  for  on  the  side  of 
your  oppressors  there  is  power,  and  ye  have  no  helper !  Stop 
your  prayers,  ye  praying  ones,  for  the  Great  Ear  is  shut — nay, 
it  was  never  open  !  Dying  sinner,  clench  thy  teeth  in  silence  : 
hope  not,  for  there  is  no  pardon ;  fear  not,  for  there  is  no  punish- 
ment !  But,  while  prayer,  and  praise,  and  the  cheerful  notes  of 
Christian  and  hopeful  toil — the  voice  of  the  Bridegroom  rejoicing 
over  his  bride,  united  by  the  sacred  tie  of  Christian  marriage — 
and  the  voice  of  the  Christian  mother,  bending  and  singing  over 
the  cradled  features,  where  she  reads  immortality — and  all  melo- 
dies which  have  wedded  Christian  hope  to  poetry  and  music, 
should  be  forever  dumb,  let  the  maniac  howl  on,  and  the  swearer 
curse,  and  the  atheist  laugh,  and  the  vile  person  sneer  and  gibber, 
and  the  hell-broth  of  war  bubble  over  in  blood,  and  the  sound  of 
the  scourge  become  eternal  as  the  growth  of  the  cane ;  and  if  mirth 
there  be,  let  it  be  expressed  in  one  wild  and  universal  dance 
between  a  grave  forever  closed  below,  and  a  heav^  forever 
empty,  and  shut,  and  silent,  above !" — All  this  we  saw  and 


FUTURE    DESTINY    OF   THE    BIBLE.  SSV 

heard,  and,  starting  from  a  slumber  more  hideous  than  death, 
found  our  Bible  in  our  bosom,  and  behold  it  was  but  a  dream ! 
"  Again  in  our  dream,  and  the  vision  was  new."  We  stood 
in  the  midst  of  a  great  plain,  or  table-land,  with  dim,  shadowy- 
mountains  far,  fiir  behind  and  around,  and  a  black,  midnight, 
moonless  sky  above.  A  motley  ^multitude  was  met,  filling  the 
whole  plain ;  and  a  wild,  stern  hum,  as  of  men  assembled  for 
some  dark  one  purpose,  told  us  that  they  were  assembled  to 
witness,  or  to  assist  at,  a  sacrifice.  In  the  midst  of  the  plain, 
there  towered  a  huge  altar,  on  which  crackled  and  smoked 
a  blaze,  blue,  livid,  and  the  spires  of  which  seemed  eyes,  eager 
and  hungrily  waiting  for  their  victim  and  prey.  Around, 
"  many  glittering  faces"  were  looking  on.  They  were  tho 
faces  of  the  priests,  who  appeared  all  men  of  gigantic  stature. 
Their  aspects  otherwise  were  various.  Some  seemed,  like  the 
flames,  restlessly  eager ;  others  seemed  timid,  were  ghastly  pale, 
and  looked  ever  and  anon  around  and  above  ;  and  in  the  eyes  of 
one  or  two  there  stood  unshed  tears.  Above  them,  in  the  smoke, 
dipping  at  times  their  wings  in  the  surge  of  the  fire,  and  fre- 
quently whispering  in  the  ears  of  the  priests,  we  noticed  certain 
dark  and  winged  figures,  the  purpose  in  whose  eyes  made  them 
shine  more  fiercely  far  than  the  flames,  and  sparkle  like  the 
jewelry  of  hell.  On  the  altar  there  was  as  yet  no  victim.  All 
this  we  saw  as  clearly  as  if  noon  had  been  resting  on  the 
plain,  for  all,  though  dark,  shone  like  the  glossy  blackness  of 
the  raven's  wing.  We  asked  in  our  astonishment,  at  one  stand- 
ing beside  us, "  What  meaneth  all  this  ?  What  sacrifice  is  this  ? 
Who  are  these  priests?"  And  he  replied,  "Know  you  not 
this  ?  These  priests  are  the  leaders  of  the  new  philosophy — the 
successors  of  those  who,  in  the  nineteenth  century,  sapped  the 
belief  of  the  nations  in  the  Bible.  They  have  met  to  burn  the 
Bible,  and  to  renew  society  through  its  ashes."  "  And  is  all 
the  multitude  of  this  mind  ?"  "  The  majority  are  ;  but  a  few 
are  so  weak  as  to  believe  that  the  book  will  be  snatched  by  a 
supernatural  hand  from  the  burning ;  and  it  is  said  that  even 
two  or  three  of  the  priests  share  at  times  in  the  foolish  delu- 


333  FUTURE    DESTINY    OF    THE    BIBLE. 

sion  :  but  I  laugli  at  it."  "  But  who  are  those  winged  figures  ?" 
"  Winged  figures,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  see  them  not."  And  he  looked 
again.  "  Yes,"  we  said,  "  with  those  plumes  of  darkness  and 
eyes  of  fire."  His  countenance  fell ;  he  stared,  trembled,  and 
was  silent.     It  appeared  that  the  multitude  saw  not  them. 

The  hum  of  the  vast  congregation  meanwhile  increased,  like 
that  of  many  waves  nearing  the  shore.  At  last,  voices  were 
heard  crying,  "  It  is  time  :  forth  with  the  old  imposture."  And 
it  was  brought  forth,  and  one  of  the  priests,  a  gray-haired  man, 
took  it  into  his  hands.  "  Who  is  this  ?"  we  asked.  "  He  was 
once,"  said  our  neighbor,  "  a  believer  in  the  Bible,  and  has 
been  chosen,  therefore,  to  cast  it  into  the  flames,  and  to  pro- 
nounce a  curse  over  it  ere  it  is  cast."  Words  would  fail  us  to 
describe  the  multitude  when  the  Book  appeared.  Some  shouted 
with  savage  joy,  others  muttered  "  curses,  not  loud,  but  deep." 
One  cried,  "  It  maddened  my  mother."  Another,  "  It  made  my 
sister  drown  herself."  A  third,  "  It  has  cost  me  many  a  night 
of  agony."  Some  we  saw  weeping,  and  wiping  away  their 
tears,  lest  they  should  be  seen ;  and  other  some  looking  up  with 
the  protest  of  indignation  and  appeal  to  Heaven.  One  face  we 
noticed — that  of  a  youth  ;  and  there  was  a  poet's  fire  in  his  eye, 
who  seemed  about  to  speak  in  the  Book's  behalf,  when  one  be- 
side put  his  hand  to  his  lips  and  held  him  back  from  his  pur- 
pose, like  a  hound  by  the  leash.  And  methought  we  heard, 
half-stifled  in  the  distance,  from  a  remote  part  of  the  assembly, 
a  deep  hollow  voice,  saying  "  Beware !" 

The  priest  approached  the  altar,  held  the  volume  over  the 
flames,  and  uttered  the  curse.  AVhat  it  was,  we  heard  not  dis- 
tinctly, for  each  word  was  lost  in  loud  volleys  of  applause,  which 
the  priests  began,  and  the  vast  multitude  repeated.  But  as  he 
held  it  in  his  grasp,  and  was  uttering  his  slow  maledictions  over 
it,  we  saw  the  Book  becoming  radiant  with  a  strange  luster, 
brightening  at  every  word,  as  if  it  were  uttering  a  silent  protest, 
and  giving  the  lie  in  light  to  the  syllables  of  insult.  And  when 
he  ceased,  there  was  silence ;  and  he  is  about  to  drop  the  Book 
into  the  burning,  when  a  voice  is  heard  saying,  not  now,  in  a 


FUTURE    DESTIMY   OF   THE   BIBLE.  839 

wriiisper,  but  as  in  ten  tliunders — "  Beware !"  and,  turning 
round,  we  saw,  speeding  from  the  mountain  boundary  of  tbe 
plain,  the  figure  of  a  man — his  eyes  shining  hke  the  sun — ^his 
hair  streamino-  behind  him — his  rio-ht  hand  stretched  out  be- 
fore.  And  as  the  multitude  open,  by  their  trembling  and  fall- 
ing to  the  ground,  a  thousand  ways  before  him  ;  and  as  the  old 
priest  stiffens  into  stone,  and  holds  the  Book  as  a  statue  might 
hold  it ;  and  as  the  priests  around  sink  over  the  altar  into  the 
flames,  and  the  winged  figures  fly,  he  approaches,  ascends,  takes 
the  Book,  and,  looking  up  to  heaven  and  around  to  earth,  ex- 
claims— "  The  Word  of  the  Lord,  the  Word  of  the  Lord  en- 
dureth  forever  !"  And  lo  !  the  altar  seemed  to  shape  itself 
into  a  throne,  and  the  man  sat  upon  it,  and  "  the  judgment 
was  set,  and  the  books  opened."  And  again  we  awoke,  and 
behold  it  was,  and  yet  tvas  not,  a  dream. 

No  ;  for  we  think  that  we  have  thus  expressed,  in  outline 
and  allegory,  a  great  reality.  That  the  Bible  is  to  go  down, 
we  believe  as  impossible  as  it  were  shocking ;  but  that  there 
is  a  deep  danger  before  it,  a  partial  eclipse  awaiting  it,  a  "  rock 
ahead,"  we  are  firmly  persuaded.  Nay,  we  are  satisfied  that 
the  dangers  are  so  numerous  and  varied,  that  no  pilot  but  one 
can  rescue  it,  and  in  it,  us,  the  church,  the  world ! 

The  spread  of  skepticism  is  the  most  obvious  of  these  dangers. 
That  in  past  ages  seemed  to  stagnate,  unless  when  it  was  fanned 
by  the  breath  of  political  excitement.,  or  forced  on  by  the  influ- 
ence of  some  powerful  genius,  or  unless  its  waters  were  strength- 
ened by  the  foul  tributary  flood  of  licentiousness.  Now  it  is 
more  of  an  age  tendency — a  world-wide  calm  and  steady  cur- 
rent— a  tide  advancing  upon  young  and  old,  wise  and  foolish, 
vicious  and  moral,  cold  and  hot,  male  and  female,  half  informed 
and  learned,  high  and  low.  Skepticism  has  been  found  of  late 
in  strange  places,  even  in  the  sanctuary  of  God.  In  proof  of 
this,  we  have  but  to  name  Foster  and  Arnold,  men  of  great, 
though  unequal  name,  of  ardent,  religious  feelings,  representing 
thousands,  and  who  both  died,  torn  and  bleeding,  in  the  breakers 
of  doubt.     The  effects  of  this  abounding  and  overflowing  stream 


3-40  FUTURE    DESTINY    OF   THE   BIBLE. 

of  tendency  are  most  pernicious.  It  has  made  the  rash  and 
inconsiderate  abandon  churches,  and  openly  avow  their  unbe- 
lief; it  has  driven  one  species  of  the  timid  into  the  arms  of 
implicit  faith,  and  another  into  a  shallow  and  transparent 
hypocrisy  ;  while,  meantime,  the  bigotry  of  some  is  hardening, 
and  their  narrowness  closing  up  every  day ;  while  others  are, 
from  various  causes,  "  detained  before  the  Lord ;"  and  while  a 
large  class  are  striving  to  forget  their  doubts,  amid  the  clatter 
of  mechanical  activities  and  the  roar  of  the  applauses  by  which 
the  report  of  these  is  in  public  rehgious  meetings  always  re- 
ceived. But  on  still  the  dark  tide  is  fioiving^  and  alas  !  gaining 
ground.  One  is  reminded  of  a  splendid  drawing-room,  in  a 
room  adjoining  to  which  a  secret  murder  has  been  newly  com- 
mitted. Brilliant  is  the  scene,  gay  the  lights,  beautiful  the 
countenances,  soft  the  music — a  wall  of  mirrors  is  reflecting 
the  various  joy ;  but  below  the  feet  of  the  company  there  is 
slowly  stealing  along  the  silent  blood,  biding  its  time,  and  too 
secure  of  producing,  to  hasten,  the  terrible  effects  of  its  dis- 
covery. 

But  how  to  meet  and  counteract  this  wide  current  ?  Some 
say — laissez  faire — it  is  good  for  us,  quietly,  to  wait ;  there  was 
a  similar  tide  in  the  days  of  the  French  Revolution — it  passed 
away,  and  the  old  landmarks  were  again  seen,  the  stronger  and 
dearer  for  the  danger.  And  so  it  may  be  again.  But  there 
are  important  differences.  That  was,  to  a  great  extent,  a  polit- 
ical movement.  It  involved,  too,  more  of  a  hcentious  spirit ; 
it  was  a  revolt  against  the  ten  commandments ;  it  was  sup- 
ported, in  a  great  measure,  by  practical  Antinomians.  The 
movement,  now,  is  quieter,  deeper — altogether  irrespective  of 
politics,  and  partly  of  morals.  And  though  we  were  willing  to 
let  it  alone,  it  will  not  let  us.  Its  consequences,  in  the  language 
of  Burke,  are  "  about  us,  they  are  npon  us,  they  shake  public 
security,  they  menace  private  enjoyment.  When  we  travel, 
they  stop  our  way.  They  infest  us  in  town,  they  pursue  us 
to  the  country."  No ;  whether  we  can  stop  this  current  or  not, 
it  is  vain  to  wait  till  it  pass — vainer  to  seek  to  let  it  alone. 


FUTURE    DESTINY    OF   THE   BIBLE.  341 

Efforts  indeed  to  check  it  are  numerous,  in  the  form  of  lec- 
tures and  essays  on  the  Evidences ;  and  of  them  we  may  say, 
valeant  quantum  valere.  They  browbeat  insolent  and  shallow 
skepticism — they  check  the  progress  of  individuals  on  their  er- 
roneous way — they  at  least  add  to  the  smoke  of  the  right  side 
of  the  field,  if  not  to  its  effectual  defense  or  raking  fire.  But 
our  hopes  of  all  or  any  of  them,  including  our  own  efforts  in 
this  volume,  are,  so  far  as  general  effect  upon  the  skeptical 
mind  is  concerned,  not  very  sanguine.  The  old  Adam,  the 
natural  infidel  tendency  of  the  heart,  strengthened  at  present 
by  the  contagion  of  that  vast  religious  corpse,  the  Continent — 
by  the  perplexed  state  of  the  critical  and  metaphysical  questions 
connected  with  the  Evidences — by  the  dominance  of  fashion,  a 
false  power,  but  waxing  greater  every  day — and  by  the  influence 
of  a  large  portion  of  the  press,  is  becoming  too  strong  for  our 
Melancthons,  young  or  old  ;  who,  besides,  do  but  too  manifestly 
evince  that  their  own  hearts  are  failing  them  for  fear  of  those 
things  which  are  coming  upon  the  world.  Books,  accordingly, 
are  loosened,  each  after  each  (like  the  horses  from  a  Russian 
sledge  pursued  by  the  wolves),  in  sacrifice  to  the  destroyers, 
who  swallow  all  greedily,  pause  a  moment,  and  then  resume 
their  pursuit  and  hungry  howl. 

Associations,  too,  have  been  formed  from  which  much  good 
was  expected.  We  have  no  desire  to  dwell  on  the  faults,  or  to 
record  the  failure,  of  such  alliances.  They  resemble  rather  an 
imperfect  census  of  population,  than  a  great  conscription  of  ac- 
tive force.  If  in  aught  successful,  they  have  been  so  rather  in 
showing  a  sense  of  the  danger  and  dise^e,  than  in  providing 
the  remedy.  Earnest  and  good  are  their  leaders  and  many  of 
the  followers  ;  but  they  have  excluded  many  who  are  better  still 
— they  have  turned  Catholicism  into  a  party  thing ;  instead  of 
generalizing  the  particular,  they  have  particularized  the  general, 
and  their  partial  success  has  been  altogether  in  keeping  with 
their  partial  and  poor  idea. 

We  have  heard  another  plan  suggested  (indeed,  we  have  the 
credit  or  discredit  of  it  ourselves),  that  a  meeting  or  committee 


342  FUTURE    DESTINY  OF   THE    BIBLE. 

should  be  called,  not  to  stereotype  and  circulate  the  points  in 
which  all  average  Christians  agree,  but  to  consider,  first,  the  gen- 
eral question  of  the  Christian  Evidences ;  and,  secondly,  the  points 
on  which  Christians  differ.  Dr.  Johnson  roared  and  stamped,  a 
century  ago,  in  behalf  of  another  "  Convocation  of  the  Church 
of  England  ;"  would  God,  we  once  thought,  that  a  selection  of 
the  wise  of  all  denominations  could  be  trusted  to  meet  now  in 
an  oecumenical  council,  with  no  dictator  but  the  invisible  spirit 
of  Jesus,  to  settle  the  many  quick,  subtile,  and  formidable 
questions  which  are  at  present  stumbling  their  thousands,  and 
imbittering  their  millions  !  Such  an  idea,  however,  we  resign, 
because,  first,  the  name  "  Utopian"  is  prepared  to  measure  the 
plan  already;  because,  again,  we  know  well  how  multiplied 
wisdom  often  becomes  singular  folly,  convocated  liberality  the 
worst  of  bigotry — how  a  thousand  in  council  will  decree  at 
night  what  every  individual  among  them  shall  be  ashamed  of 
on  the  morrow — how  fatal  to  human  progress  and  the  cause  of 
Christian  truth,  have  been  the  results,  in  written  shape,  of  such 
meetings  already ;  and  because,  once  again,  the  decision  of  this 
supposed  court,  however  "  frequent  and  full,"  however  well  se^■ 
lected  and  well  managed,  could  never  in  this  age  exert  so  much 
authority  as  a  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord,"  proceeding  from  a  single 
accredited  messenger  or  prophet  from  heaven. 

Others  continue  to  trust  implicitly  in  old  forms  of  faith  and 
old  shapes  of  agency,  provided  the  first  be  made  still  more 
stringently  orthodox,  and  the  second  be  intensified  in  energy 
and  zeal.  But,  alas  !  these  agents  are  carrying  now  their 
shadoivs  along  with  them  to  their  work,  and  are  finding  that 
those  they  visit  have  theirs  too  !  They  are  bringing  darkness  to 
darkness ;  or,  too  often,  they  gain  a  partial  and  mean  triumph 
by  dogmatizing  down,  instead  of  meeting  fairly  and  kindly,  the 
doubts  they  hear  from  the  more  intelligent  of  the  poor,  or  the 
heathens.  And  while  they  are,  by  fair  or  by  foul  methods, 
breaking  in  upon  the  ignorant  or  brutified  gloom  of  the  masses 
at  home  or  abroad,  behind,  with  sure,  noiseless  footstep,  the 
illuminated  darkness  of  this  twilight  age  is  following  in  their 


PUTURE   DESTINY    OF   THE    BIBLE.  S43 

track,  shadowing  their  own  souls,  and  by  and  by  threatening 
to  engulf  those  of  their  converts  too. 

Our  agencies  are  doing  a  good  woi'k,  and  ought  to  be  en- 
couraged ;  our  creeds  are  exerting  still  a  powerful  influence, 
and  should  not  lightly  be  tampered  with.  But  there  is  an  un- 
belief abroad  which  our  agencies  can  not  reach,  and  there  is 
also  a  faith  abroad  which  our  creeds  can  not  consolidate  or  con- 
tain. The  assault  our  churches  and  our  creeds  are  at  present 
sustaining,  is  partly  of  light  and  partly  of  darkness  ;  and  hence 
the  strange  peculiarity  and  difficulty  of  the  Christian's  position. 
"  The  morning  cometh,  and  also  the  night."  Light  is  dawning 
in  the  East,  but  is  it  dawning  at  such  an  angle  as  to  reach  the 
valley  of  vision  where  he  stands,  or  only  to  show  how  dark 
and  dim  that  valley  is  ?  That  question  he  can  not  fully  answer, 
and  must  wait  patiently  till  another  do. 

Our  agencies  are  excellent,  but  imperfect ;  our  creeds  excel- 
lent, but  with  something  wrong  in  all  of  them.  And  till  these 
imperfections  be  remedied,  we  calmly,  yet  fearlessly,  expect  the 
following  phenomena — an  increasing  indifference  to  forms  of 
faith ;  a  yearly  increase  of  deserters  from  churches  and  public 
worship ;  the  increase,  too,  among  a  class,  of  a  fashionable, 
formal,  and  heartless  devotion  ;  the  spread,  on  the  one  hand,  of 
Popery  and  superstition,  and  of  fanaticism  and  bigotry  on  the 
other,  which  shall  each  react  into  doubt  by  its  very  violence ; 
the  increase  of  determination  and  unity  among  philosophical 
skeptics ;  continued  and  fierce  assaults  on  the  bulwarks  of  the 
Bible  from  without — feebler  and  feebler  resistance  from  within  ; 
a  growing  impatience  and  fury  on  the  subject  in  the  general 
mind ;  all  the  signs,  in  short,  that  the  Book,  as  a  religious 
authority,  is  tottering  like  an  old  crown,  and  must  be  sup- 
ported from  within  or  without,  from  around  or  from  ahove. 

It  is  the  very  tale  of  the  Jewish  Temple,  before  the  Advent 
of  Christ.  It  had  fallen  into  comparative  contempt;  it  was 
imder  an  enemy's  hand  ;  it  was  not  only  forsaken  of  many 
men,  but  God's  fire  was  burning  low  upon  the  altar,  and  not  a 
few  voices  were  heard  saying,  "  Raze,  raze  it  to  the  foundation." 


344  FUTURE    DESTINY  OF   THE    BIBLE. 

Its  young  worshipers  seem  very  generally  to  have  forsaken  it. 
Still  Simeon  and  Anna,  Joseph  and  Mary — in  other  words,  the 
old  disciples — and  the  middle  class  of  men  and  of  women,  were 
to  be  found  faithfully  worshiping — and  Zacharias  and  Elisa- 
beth were  diligently  ministering  there.  They  still  believed  at 
once  in  its  former  divine  consecration,  its  present  connection 
■with  heaven,  and  its  future  glory.  And  two  events  by  and  by 
convinced  the  land  and  the  world  that  their  belief  had  been 
sound. 

The  first  of  these  was  the  rise  of  the  Baptist.  He  came  in 
haste,  to  announce  the  approach  of  the  mightier  than  he.  He 
roused  the  whole  land  by  his  startling  words.  And,  "  while  he 
was  yet  speaking,"  the  Master  appeared.  But  have  the  words, 
"  Behold,  I  will  send  you  Elijah  the  prophet  before  the  coming 
of  the  great  and  dreadful  day  of  the  Lord,"  been  exhausted  by 
his  coming  ?  Was  the  day  he  introduced  a  "  dreadful  day  ?" 
Must  there  not  be  a  reference  in  the  prophecy  to  events  still 
future  ?  We,  for  our  parts,  expect  the  Master  to  be  again 
preceded  by  a  forerunner.  We  have  already  seen  (in  "  Paul") 
the  qualifications  that  forerunner  must  possess.  His  loorh,  like 
the  Baptist's,  may  be  partly  conservative  and  partly  destructive. 
"  Down  with  all  that  oppresses  the  genuine  spirit  of  Christianity, 
and  impedes  its  free  motions,"  shall  be  one  of  his  cries.  But 
*'  Hold  to  the  Book  with  a  death's  grasp,  till  the  Master  come  to 
explain,  supplement,  glorify  it  anew,"  shall  be  another.  And 
a  third  and  loudest  shall  be,  "  He  is  behind  me ;  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  is  at  hand." 

The  full  amount  of  impression  such  cries  may  produce  we 
can  not  tell.  Rouse  many  they  must ;  check  many  they  may ; 
fan  the  flame  of  hope  in  the  hearts  of  many  drooping  believers 
they  will.  But  they  will  not,  nor  are  meant  to  stop  the  pro- 
gress of  the  "  mist  of  darkness,"  gathering  on  to  that  gloomiest 
hour  which  is  to  precede  the  dawning  of  the  great  day — an 
hour  in  which  the  Word  of  God  may  seem  a  waning  moon, 
trembling  on  extinction,  and  in  which  every  Christian  heart 
shall  be  trembling  too.     "  There  shall  be  signs  in  the  sun,  and 


FUTURE    DESTINY  OF   THE    BIBLE.  345 

in  the  moon,  and  in  the  stars  ;  and  upon  the  earth  distress  of 
nations,  with  perplexity  ;  the  sea  and  the  waves  roaring ;  men's 
hearts  faihng  them /or /ear,  and  for  looking  after  those  things 
which  are  coming  on  the  earth,  for  the  powers  of  heaven  shall 
be  shaken.  And  then  shall  they  see  the  Son  of  Man  coming 
in  a  cloud,  with  power  and  great  glory." 

'Tis  a  remarkable  saying  w^hich  follows,  "  Heaven  and  earth 
shall  pass  away,  but  my  words  shall  not  pass  away."  It  is  as 
if  the  Savior  anticipated  the  crisis  which  was  before  his  "  words." 
They  are  in  danger  of  passing  away — nay,  they  are  passing 
away — when  he  comes  down  and  says,  "  No,  heaven  and  earth 
must  pass  away  first^  must  pass  away  instead ;"  and  they  are 
sti*^ightway  changed,  and  his  waning  words  catch  new  hght 
and  fire  from  his  face,  and  shine  more  brightly  than  before.  It 
is  as  it  were  a  struggle  between  his  works  and  his  words,  in 
which  the  latter  are  victorious. 

We  are  fast  approaching  the  position  of  the  Grecians  on  the 
plains  of  Troy.  Our  enemies  are  pressing  us  hard  on  the  field, 
or  from  the  Ida  of  the  ideal  philosophy  throwing  out  incessant 
volleys.  There  are  disunion,  distrust,  disafiection  among  our- 
selves. Our  standard  still  floats  intact,  but  our  standard-bearers 
are  fainting.  Meanwhile  our  Achilles  is  retired  from  us.  But 
just  as  when  the  Grecian  distress  deepened  to  its  darkest,  when 
Patroclus  the  "  forerunner"  had  fallen,  when  men  and  gods  had 
driven  them  to  the  very  verge  of  the  sea,  Achilles  knew  his 
time  was  come,  started  up,  sent  before  him  his  terrible  voice, 
and  his  more  terrible  eye,  and  turned  straightway  the  tide  of 
battle ;  so  do  we  expect  that  our  increasing  dangers  and  multi- 
plying foes,  that  the  thousand-fold  night  that  seems  rushing 
upon  us,  is  a  token  that  aid  is  coming,  and  that  our  Achilles 
shall  "  no  more  be  silent,  but  speak  out,"  shall  hft  his 

"  Bow,  Ins  thunder,  his  almighty  arms" — 

"  shall  take  unto  him  his  great  power  and  reign."  And  even  as 
Cromwell,  when  he  saw  the  sun  rising  through  the  mist  on  the 


^4d  FUTURE   DESTINY  OF   THE   BIBLE. 

field  of  Dunbar,  with  the  instinct  of  genius,  caught  the  moment, 
pointed  to  it  with  his  sword,  and  cried,  "  Arise,  0  God,  and  let 
thine  enemies  be  scattered,"  and  led  his  men  to  victory,  let  us 
accept  the  same  omen,  and  breathe  the  same  prayer. 

Nor  does  it  derogate  from  the  Bible  to  say,  that  it  must  re- 
ceive aid  from  on  high  to  enable  it  to  "  stand  in  the  evil  day, 
and  having  done  all,  to  stand."  It  has  nobly  discharged  its 
work ;  it  has  kept  its  post,  and  will,  though  with  difficulty, 
keep  it,  till  the  great  reserve,  long  promised  and  always  ex- 
pected, shall  arrive.  It  was  no  derogation  to  the  old  economy 
to  say,  that  it  yielded  to  the  "  New  Shekinah" — it  had  accom- 
plished its  task  in  keeping  the  fire  burning,  although  burning 
low,  till  the  day-spring  appeared ;  nor  is  it  a  derogation  to  tTie 
New  Testament  to  say,  that  it  has  carried,  like  a  torch  in  the 
wind,  a  hope,  two  thousand  years  old,  till  it  now  seems  about 
to  be  lost  in  the  light  of  a  brighter  dispensation. 

And  while  the  hope  is  to  be  lost  in  its  fruition,  what  shall  be 
the  fate  of  the  volume  which  so  long  sustained  it  ?  "What  has 
been  the  fate  of  the  Old  Testament  ?  Has  it  not  retained  its 
reverence  and  power  ?  Is  it  not  every  day  increasing  in  clear- 
ness ?  Has  not  the  New  Testament  reflected  much  of  its  own 
radiance  upon  it  ?  Do  they  not  lie  lovingly  and  side  by  side 
in  the  same  volume  ?  And  why  should  not  the  New  Book  of 
the  Laws  and  Eevelations  of  the  Prince  of  the  Ejngs  of  the 
earth  (if  such  a  book  there  were)  form  a  third,  and  complete 
the  "  threefold  chord  which  is  not  easily  broken  ?"  And  would 
not  both  the  New  and  the  Old  Testament  derive  glorious  illus- 
tration from  the  influences  and  illuminations  of  the  Millennial 
Day  ?  * 

*  To  these  views  of  tlie  probable  personal  Advent  of  Christ,  objec- 
tions may  be  anticipated.  It  may  be  said,  for  instance,  "  Do  you  not 
in  one  place  of  the  chapter  lay  little  stress  upon  miracles ;  and  in  an- 
other expect  every  thing  from  a  future  miraculous  interference  ?"  But 
what  have  we  said,  after  all,  save  that  the  miracles  recorded  in  the 
New  Testament  have  not  converted  the  world  ?  But  why  should  not 
other  miracles,  if  conducted  upon  a  grander  scale,  and  accompanied 


FUTURE    DESTINY  OF   THE    BIBLE.  347 

But  the  "  scene  is  mingling  with  the  heavens."  Pisgah  is 
past.  Mount  Zion  itself  is  appearing.  The  city  of  God  is 
bursting  into  view.  But  who  shall  describe  that  sight?  Pro- 
phets have  seen  the  skirts  of  its  glory,  and  fallen  down  as  dead 
men.  The  changes  and  birth-pangs  which  shall  usher  in  these 
new  heavens  and  that  new  earth,  we  can  not  even  conjecture  ; 
of  the  nature  of  that  new  theocracy,  we  have  but  dim  concep- 
tions; and  our  words  being  necessarily  faint,  must  be  few. 
Suffice  it,  that  it  shall  be  a  just  government.  It  shall  judge 
"  righteous  judgment."  It  shall  judge,  no  longer  by  the  out- 
w\^rd  appearance,  but  by  the  heart.  It  shall  be  a  government 
of  souls,  as  well  as  of  bodies.  It  shall  be  a  government  of 
commanding  mildness — overbearing  love.  It  shall  be  a  gov- 
ernment securing  for  the  first  time  perfect  liberty,  brotherhood, 
and  equality  to  the  nations.  It  shall  be  the  first  government 
that  ever  united  all  interests  in  its  care,  and  made  all  men 
equally  happy  under  its  dominion.     It  shall  unite  the  race  into 

with  Christ's  personal  presence,  effect  a  stupendous  change  upon  it  ? 
Tlie  raising  of  Lazarus  did  not  move  the  obstinacy  of  the  Jews ;  but 
surely  the  raising  or  changing  of  all  men  would  convince  all  men  of 
the  reality  of  the  Savior's  power.  What  doubt  but  must  expire  in  the 
blaze  of  judgment?  Surely  there  is  a  difference  between  miracles 
wrought  during  a  state  of  probation,  and  miracles  wrought  to  bring  that 
state  of  probation  to  a  close.  It  would  seem,  too,  that  punitive  pur- 
poses are  more  contemplated  in  the  miracles  of  the  last  dispensation^ 
than  those  of  conversion.  "  Behold,  I  come  quickly,  and  my  reward  is 
with  me,  to  give  to  every  man  according  to  his  work."  We  can  retort, 
too,  upon  our  opponents,  by  saying,  "  You  admit  that  the  agency  of 
the  Spirit  has  not  accomplished  the  work  of  converting  the  world,  and 
yet  you  expect  that  event  from  a  different  measure  of  the  same  agency." 
It  may  be  said  next,  "  But  might  not  the  Spirit  perform  all  the 
work?"  We  answer,  undoubtedly;  but,  first,  if  a  Pentecostal  revival 
take  place,  it  will,  in  all  probabihty,  like  that  of  old,  be  accompanied 
with  miracles,  and  why  not  with  the  additional  marvel  of  the  Son's 
appearance  ;  especially  as,  secondly,  we  find  the  promise  of  his  coming 
so  frequently  connected  in  Scripture  with  the  destruction  of  his  ene- 
mies, and  the  advancement  of  his  Church.  If  no  Pentecostal  revival  be 
sent — if  the  Church  is  to  proceed  at  its  present  creeping  and  crippled 


348  FUTURE    DESTINY    OF   THE   BIBLE. 

one  band  of  laborers,  to  develop  tbe  riches  and  beautify  the 
surface  of  the  planet.  It  shall  unite  the  churches  into  one  great 
throng  of  worshipers,  "  with  one  Lord,  one  faith,  and  one  bap- 
tism." 

How  beautiful,  then,  shall  seem,  renewed  and  glorified,  this 
"  great  globe,  the  world !"  The  promises  of  ten  thousand  days 
of  loveliness  in  the  past,  of  innumerable  mornings  and  evenings, 
or  nights  trembling  all  over  with  starry  pulses  of  glory,  shall 
be  realized  in  the  permanent  aspects  of  earth  and  of  sky.  The 
prophecies  of  all  genuine  poets,  since  the  world  began,  shall 
have  a  living  fulfillment  in  the  general  countenance,  and  charac- 
ter, and  heart  of  man.  Nor  shall  the  spirit  of  progress  and 
aspiring  change  be  extinct.  To  meet  the  new  discoveries  be- 
low, and  the  new  stars  and  constellations  flashing  down  always 
from  the  Infinite  above,  or  drawing  nearer  and  becoming 
brighter  in  the  mystic  dances  of  the  heavens,  men's  minds 
must  arise  in  sympathy  and  brighten  in  unison.  "Who  shall 
picture  what  the  state  of  society,  and  what  the  progress  of  hu- 

rate — when,  we  ask,  is  its  Millennium  to  dawn  ?  SJiall  it  ever  i  ISTo 
alternative  can  we  see,  but  Jesus  advenient,  and  prayer  and  work  done 
in  this  prospect,  or  despair. 

"We  have  in  the  text  anticipated  objections  which  might  be  urged  to 
our  belief  in  a  "  Forerunner."  Such  a  being  would  answer  the  same 
end  with  the  Baptist.  He  would  encourage  the  friends  and  check  the 
foes,  till  the  hour  for  the  Divine  Man  should  strike.  He  might,  in  some 
measure,  prepare  the  Church,  if  not  the  world,  for  the  Advent,  al- 
though both,  in  some  measure,  it  shall,  according  to  Scripture,  take  by 
surprise. 

But  to  defend  this  ancient  "hope"  of  the  church  is  not  our  special 
purpose.  We  recommend  those  who  are  ignorant  alike  of  its  grounds 
and  its  grandeur,  to  read  Edward  Irving's  Preface  to  "  Ben  Ezra,"  a 
production  little  known,  but  in  power,  simplicity,  and  dignity,  not 
equaled  since  the  apostles  fell  asleep,  or  equaled  by  the  Areopagitica 
of  Milton  alone.  And  when  shall  George  Croly,  or  William  Anderson, 
write  a  great  apology  for  this  "  hope  that  is  in  them,"  in  a  style  which 
shall  at  once  rebuke  sciolists,  convince  inquirers,  and  blow  a  blast  of 
mingled  music  and  thunder  to  a  sleeping  Church  and  a  gainsaying 
world  2 


FUTURE   DESTINY  OF    THE    BIBLE.  349 

man  souls,  at  that  astronomical  era,  when  the  Cross  shall  shine 
in  our  southern  heaven,  and  the  Lyre  shall  include  our  Polar 
star  amid  its  burning  strings  ?  Must  there  not  then  break  forth 
from  our  orb  a  voice  of  song,  holier  than  Amphion's,  sweeter 
than  all  Orphean  measures,  comparable  to  that  fabled  melody 
by  which  the  spheres  were  said  to  attune  their  motions  ;  com- 
parable, say,  rather,  to  that  nobler  song  wherewith,  when  earth, 
a  stranger,  first  appeared  in  the  sky,  she  was  saluted,  by  the 
"  Morning  stars  singing  together,  and  all  the  sons  of  God  shout- 
ing for  joy." 

Changes  more  stupendous  still  may  follow.  These  skies 
may  be  entirely  dissolved.  This  earth,  notwithstanding  all  her 
wondrous  history,  may  be  removed  like  a  cottage.  The  whole 
universe  may  be  thrown  into  a  new  mold,  or  be  used  as  mere 
scaffolding  to  some  ulterior  building  of  yet  grander  purpose,  and 
more  spiritual  symmetry  and  beauty.  The  sun  may  "  sleep  on 
in  his  clouds,  careless  of  the  voice  of  the  morning."  The  red 
eye  of  Sirius  may  shut  upon  his  old  battle-field.  The  Wolf  may 
no  more — 

"  With  looks  of  lightning,  watch  the  Centaur's  spear." 

Orion  may  no  longer  pass  in  slow  and  martial  pomp  as  a  sen- 
tinel through  the  midnight  heavens.  The  Milky  Way  may 
have  shut  its  two  awful  arms,  and  ceased  its  dumb  prayer. 
But  let  not  the  heart  of  the  Christian  tremble.  His  safety  is 
independent  of  all  materiahsm.  His  Savior  "made,"  and 
shall  survive  the  "worlds."  His  soul,  too,  bears  on  it  the 
stamp  of  absolute  immortality.  His  earth  may  sink  under  his 
feet ;  but  the  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake  shall  be  there,  and  shall 
save  the  cSrew  of  the  dear  vessel.  His  skies  may  wither ;  but 
there  is  a  spiritual  firmament  forever  o'er  his  head,  which  shall 
get  brighter  every  moment.  His  Bible  may  not  be  found  in 
his  hands ;  but  its  truths  shall  be  engraven  on  his  heart,  its 
pictures  shall  be  written  on  his  imagination,  and  the  memory  of 
its  old  powers  and  glories  shall  never  decay,    xind  what  though 


350  rUTURE    DESTINY  OF    THE    BIBLE. 

star-spangled  vail  after  vail  of  matter  fall,  if,  by  the  downfall  of 
eacli,  he  be  brought  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  Great  Spirit ;  and 
what  though  he  leave  room  after  room  of  splendor  behind  him 
on  his  rapid  way,  if  he  be  approaching  always — though  never 
absolutely  to  reach — that  "secret  place  of  thundering,"  that 
"  holiest  of  all,"  where  dwells  the  always  Old,  the  always 
Young,  the  All-Wise  and  the  Ever-Silent,  the  Inscrutable  and 
Eternal  One. 

Here  we  draw  down  the  curtain,  and  drop  the  theme.  If  we 
have,  in  the  volume  now  concluded,  taught  one  man  to  love  the 
Bible  more,  or  one  to  hate  it  less — if  we  have  stumbled  but  one 
on  his  dreary  w^ay  to  the  wrong  side  of  the  great  Armageddon 
valley,  or  have  cheered  but  one  spirit  that  was  trembling  for 
the  ark  of  God — if  we  have  shot  but  one  new  pang  of  the  feel- 
ing of  the  Bible's  surpassing  truth  and  beauty,  across  the  minds 
of  the  literary  public,  or  expressed  but  a  tithe  of  our  own  youth- 
implanted  and  deep-cherished  convictions  and  emotions  on  the 
surpassing  theme,  then  this  volume,  with  all  its  deficiencies,  has 
not  been  written  in  vain. 

The  spirit  of  the  whole  production  seems  to  demand  it  to 
close  in  the  words  of  a  poet's  invocation  : — 

"  Come,  then,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns, 
Receive  yet  one,  the  crown  of  all  the  best, 
Thou  who  alone  art  worthy !  It  was  thine 
By  ancient  covenant,  ere  nature's  birth, 
And  thou  hast  made  it  thine  by  purchase  too, 
And  overpaid  its  value  by  thy  blood. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king,  and  in  their  hearts 
Thy  title  is  engraven  with  a  pen, 
Dipped  in  the  fountains  of  eternal  love. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  King,  and  thy  delay 
Gives  courage  to  thy  foes,  who,  could  they  see 
The  dawn  of  thy  last  Advent,  long  desired, 
Would  creep  into  the  bowels  of  the  hills, 
And  flee  for  safety  to  the  falling  rocks. 
The  very  spirit  of  the  world  is  tired 


FUTURE    DESTINY  OF    THE   BIBLE.  351 

Of  its  own  taunting  question  asked  so  long, 
*  Where  is  the  promise  of  your  Lord's  approach  V 
****** 

Come,  then,  and  added  to  thy  many  crowns, 
Receive  yet  one,  as  radiant  as  the  rest, 
Due  to  thy  last  and  most  effectual  work, 
Thy  work  fulfilled,  the  conquest  of  a  world." 


SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER. 

THE  POETICAL  CHARACTERS  IN  SCRIPTURE. 

Beside  tlie  authors  and  poets  of  the  Old  and  "New  Testaments, 
there  are,  in  the  course  of  both,  a  number  of  characters  depicted, 
teeming  with  pecuhar  and  romantic  interest,  and  who  are  abun- 
dantly entitled  to  the  epithet  poetical.  It  were  unpardonable, 
in  a  book  professing  to  include  a  summary  of  all  the  poetical 
elements  of  the  Book  of  God,  to  omit  a  rapid  survey  of  these, 
neither  mute  nor  inglorious,  although  no  songs  have  they  sung, 
nor  treatises  of  truth  recorded,  but  who,  "being  dead,  yet 
speak,!'  in  the  eloquence,  passion,  devotion,  or  peculiarity  and 
wickedness,  of  their  histories.  We  are,  therefore,  tempted  to 
annex  the  following  chapter,  as  an  appendix  to  the  volume. 

First  among  these,  stands  Adam  himself.  How  interesting 
the  circumstances  of  his  formation  !  Mark  with  what  dignity 
God  accompanied  the  making  of  man.  Behold  th^  whole 
Trinity  consulting  together  ere  they  proceeded  to  this  last  and 
greatest  work  of  the  Demiurgic  days.  God  had  only  said — 
"Let  there  be  hght,  let  there  be  a  firmament,  let  the  waters  be 
gathered  together,  let  the  earth  bring  forth  the  living  creature 
after  his  kind ;"  but,  when  man  was  to  be  taken  out  of  the 
clay,  the  style  of  Deity  rises,  if  we  may  so  speak,  above  itself, 
and  he  says — "  Let  us  make  man  after  our  own  likeness." 

We  may  imagine  ourselves  present  at  this  thrilling  moment. 
A  mist  is  watering  the  face  of  the  ground,  and  partially  be- 
dimming  the  sun.  Slowly,  yet  mysteriously,  is  the  red  clay 
drawn  out  of  the  ground,  fashioned,  and  compacted  into  the 
shape  of  man,  till  the  future  master  of  the  w^orld  is,  as  to  his 


ME   POETICAL   CHARACTERS   IN   SCRIPTURE.  353 

bodily  part,  complete,  and  lies,  statue-like  and  still,  upon  tbe 
dewey  ground.  But  speedily,  like  a  gentle  breeze,  the  breath 
of  the  Lord  passes  over  his  face,  and  he  becomes  a  hving  soul, 
and  his  eyes  open  upon  the  green  glad  earth,  and  the  orb  of 
day  shining  through  a  golden  mist,  and  his  ears  open  to  the 
melodies,  which  seem  to  salute  him  as  Lord  of  all,  and  he  starts 
to  his  feet,  and  stretches  out  his  hands  to  the  sun  as  if  to  em- 
brace it,  and  the  mists  disperse,  and  the  beams  of  noon  show 
him  Eden  shining  in  all  its  beauty — the  abode  of  man,  and  the 
garden  of  God.  His  emotions  can  no  more  be  conceived  than 
described.  The  infant  is  introduced  step  by  step  into  the  sight 
of  the  great  temple  of  the  creation.  But  it  must  have  burst  in 
all  but  an  instant  upon  the  view  of  the  man-boy,  Adam.  His 
happiness,  however,  was  not  yet  complete :  he  was  still  alone. 
And  he  could  not  be  long  in  the  world  till  he  desired  a  com- 
panion. The  sun  he  could  not  grasp ;  the  moon,  walking  in 
her  brightness,  he  could  not  detain  ;  the  trees  cooled  his  brow, 
but  yielded  no  sympathy  to  his  heart.  His  own  shadow  was 
but  a  cold  and  coy  companion.  And,  probably,  while  full  of 
cravings  after  society,  which  mingled  with  and  damped  his 
new-born  raptures  of  joy,  he  felt  creeping  over  him  the  soft  in- 
fluences of  slumber.  He  slept.  There  was  sleep  in  Eden: 
perhaps  there  may  be  sleep  in  heaven  !  Man  was  scarcely 
created  till  he  slept ;  and,  while  asleep,  "  God  took  one  of  his 
ribs,  and  made  of  it  a  woman,"  not  of  rude  clay,  but  of  the 
finished  portion  of  a  finished  man,  forming  her  from  a  finer 
material,  and  clothing  her  with  a  more  fascinating  loveliness. 
"He  brought  her  to* the  man,"  as  a  companion  to  his  joys,  for 
sorrows  as  yet  he  had  none,  to  talk  with  him  in  Eden,  in  the 
large  sweet  utterance  of  a  tongue  tuned  and  taught  by  God  him- 
self, to  wander  with  him  by  the  rivers  of  paradise,  to  be  united 
to  him  by  a  tie  of  tender  and  indissoluble  affection.  "With  joy 
he  welcomed  her  as  the  breathing  essence — the  perfumed  mar- 
row of  his  own  being — "  bone  of  his  bone,  and  flesh  of  his 
flesh ;"  and  surely  we  may  believe  that  the  harps  of  angels,  as 
well  as  the  glad  sounds  of  nature,  celebrated  the  happy  union. 


354  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE. 

This  fair  and  noble  product  was  made  in  "  God's  image" — 
understanding  not  by  this,  as  some  suppose,  his  erect  bodily 
form — a  form  possessed  by  apes  as  well  as  by  men— but  a  simil- 
itude of  mental  and  moral  character,  mingled  together  in  large 
and  equal  proportions.  We  deny  not,  indeed,  that  this  may 
have  expressed  itself  in  the  outward  hneaments  of  our  first 
parents,  nor  will  call  those  mere  enthusiasts  who  may  tell  us 
that  Adam  was  fairer  far  than  any  of  his  sons,  and  Eve,  than 
any  of  her  daughters ;  nay,  that  the  sun  is  not  more  glorious 
than  the  face  of  the  first  man,  nor  the  rising  moon  of  evening 
more  beautiful  than  that  of  the  first  woman.  But  the  glory  was 
chiefly  mental  and  moral.  Adam  bore  a  mental  resemblance 
to  his  Maker.  He  had  an  ample  intellect,  a  rich  imagination, 
united  together  by  a  hnk  of  burning  soul,  as  superior  to  that  of 
Milton,  who  sang  him  in  strains  which  shall  never  die,  as  that 
to  the  trodden  worm.  But  he  had  not  only  a  high,  but  a  holy 
spirit — a  conscience  the  most  undefiled — a  sense  of  duty  elec- 
trically quick — affections  sunning  themselves  in  God — and  a 
love  pure,  and  bright,  and  constant  as  the  lamps  which,  while 
shining  in  the  divine  presence,  owe  their  radiance  to  the  divine 
eye.  Eve,  in  a  more  soft  and  shadowy  light,  reflected  the  ar- 
dent splendors  of  his  character.  Alas  !  that  two  such  children 
should  ever  have  erred,  and  that  a  crown  so  beautiful  and  so 
delicately  woven,  should  have  dropped  from  their  heads ! 

Drop,  however,  it  did.  That  first  hour  of  the  world's 
prime  was  as  short  as  it  was  beautiful.  Eden  is  gone,  and  gone 
forever.  It  was  but  a  spot  in  a  dark  earth,  after  all,  supernatu- 
rally  gilded,  and  its  very  wreck  remains  not;  No  more  do  its 
bowers  shower  "roses  on  the  first  lovers  ;"  no  more  do  its 
streams  murmur  music  in  their  ears ;  no  more  are  the  shadows 
of  mailed  angels  reflected  in  the  four  rivers  ;  no  more  is  the  voice 
of  God  heard  in  our  groves,  or  in  our  gardens,  in  the  cool  of  the 
day.  But  let  the  prospects  of  the  future  cheer  us  in  the  memory 
of  the  sorrows  of  the  past.  Let  the  breezes  soon  to  begin  to 
blow  upon  us  from  the  land  of  Millennial  rest — or,  at  all  events, 
let  the  prospects  of  an  eternal  heaven,  of  a  paradise  in  the  skies, 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS   IN    SCRIPTURE.  355 

of  a  Sim  to  which  that  of  Eden  was  darkness,  of  rivers  to  which 
those  of  Eden  were  shallow  and  dumb,  of  groves  to  which  those 
of  Eden  had  no  beauty  and  no  music — console  us  for  all  that 
Adam  had,  and  for  all  that  Adam  lost. 

Adam,  in  Genesis,  is  entirely,  and,  from  the  shortness  of  the 
history,  necessarily,  a  representative  person.  He  has  no  pecu- 
liarities of  character,  apart  from  his  federal  connection  with  the 
race.  He  seems  but  an  outline,  far  and  faint,  which  every 
imagination  is  left  to  fill  up  ;  and  thus,  when  he  falls,  we  mourn 
not  at  all  for  him,  nor  for  Eve,  but  for  the  general  happiness 
lost,  and  the  general  gulf  of  woe  and  wickedness  opened. 
And  it  is  one  of  Milton's  greatest  triumphs,  that  he  has  invested 
Adam  and  Eve  with  such  an  individual  interest,  that,  at  the 
tidings  of  their  ruin,  w^e  grieve  for  them  as  for  dear  friends,  and 
feel  sadder  for  Eve's  flowers  than  for  the  whole  federal  ca- 
tastrophe. 

Of  Cain,  Adam's  eldest  son,  too,  we  can  hardly  judge  accu- 
rately or  distinctl}^,  apart  from  the  many  poetic  shapes  which, 
since  the  account  of  Moses,  he  has  assumed,  yet  our  idea  of  him 
may  be  uttered.  Born  amid  great  expectations,  called  by  his 
mother  "  the  man,  the  Lord,"  he  grew  up,  disappointing  every 
fond  hope,  and  becoming  a  somewhat  sullen  drudge,  "  a  tiller 
of  the  ground."  Meanwhile,  his  younger  brother  is  exhibiting 
the  finer  traits  of  the  pastoral  character.  The  "  elder  is  made 
to  serve  the  younger."  Fiercely  does  the  once-spoiled  child 
kick  against  the  pricks,  till  at  last  the  fury  of  conscious  inferior- 
ity breaks  out  in  blood- — the  blood  of  Abel.  Conscience-struck, 
hearing  in  every  wind  the  voice  of  his  brother's  gore — nay, 
carrying  it  in  his  ear,  as  the  shell  carries  inland  the  sound  of 
ocean's  waters — he  flees  from  his  native  region,  and  a  curse 
clings  to  him,  and  the  whole  story  seems  to  prove — first,  the 
evil  of  over-excited  and  disappointed  hopes ;  secondly,  the 
misery  of  the  murderer ;  and  thirdly,  how  God  can  deduce  good 
from  evil,  and  mingle  mercy  with  judgment.  Abel's  blood 
probably  promoted  the  separation  of  two  races  who  had  been 
too  long  mingled — the  race  of  those  who  worshiped,  and  that 


356  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS   IN    SCRIPTURE. 

of  those  wlio  liated  God ;  and  God  was  pleased,  no  doubt  sig- 
nificantly, to  let  tlie  first  sliedder  of  man's  blood  escape. 

Poets  have  done  with  Cain  as  it  seemed  good  in  their  own 
eyes.  Gessner's  "  Death  of  Abel"  is  a  somewhat  mawkish, 
though  rather  elegant  production,  full  of  the  first  froth  of  that 
German  genius,  which  seems  now,  so  far  as  poetry  is  con- 
cerned, in  its  lees.  Coleridge  has  given  us  a  noble  fragment, 
the  "  Wanderings  of  Cain" — the  sweetest  and  most  Scriptural 
of  all  his  productions,  but  in  which  he  tries  to  graft  a  new  and 
strange  machinery  on  the  Scripture  narrative,  which  he  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  have  reconciled  with  it,  or  to  have 
managed  in  itself.  Byron  has  dropped  on  the  rude  and  sullen 
"  tiller  of  the  ground"  a  metaphysical  molting  from  his  own 
dark  wing.  Yet  his  poem  is  a  magnificent  mistake,  though,  as 
really  as  that  of  Coleridge,  it  is  a  fragment.  And  Edmund 
Reade  has  tried  to  finish  this  tewible  Torso,  but  the  "  foot  of 
Hercules"  seems  to  spurn  him  for  his  insolence  in  the  attempt. 

Enoch,  the  seventh  from  Adam,  enjoys  a  singular  and  short 
prominence  in  the  early  Scripture  narrative.  A  few  sentences 
sum  up  his  history.  All  at  once  he  is  seen  walking  with  God. 
In  a  httle  while,  he  is  heard  prophesying — "  Behold  the  Lord 
cometh  with  ten  thousand  of  his  saints  ;"  and  again  a  little 
while,  he  is  seen  and  heard  of  no  more.  "  He  was  not,  for  God 
took  him."  No  chariot  of  fire  for  him.  He  was  taken,  or  hfted, 
away  by  God's  own  hand.  It  is  a  rumor  of  the  Rabbis,  that 
he  was  on  the  point  of  being  murdered  by  an  assemblage  of 
the  flood-deserving  and  flood-doomed  children  of  Cain,  when 
he  disappeared  :  he  was  not — he  was  melted  down  in  God.  It 
is  remarkable,  that,  though  the  first  of  the  prophets,  he  yet  pro- 
phesied of  the  last  event  in  the  history  of  the  world — the  com- 
ing of  the  Lord.  It  is  as  if  no  event  betwixt  w^ere  majestic 
enough  for  him  to  touch — as  if  this  coming  of  Christ  from  heaven 
best  suited  the  tongue  of  him  who,  even  on  earth,  was  breath- 
ing the  air  of  the  upper  paradise,  and  was,  in  a  little  while,  to 
be  caught  up  among  the  visions  of  God.  Enoch's  history  rests, 
like  a  drop  of  glory,  upon  that  ancient  page. 


THE   POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN"    SCRIPTURE.  357 

Having  come  to  "  this  side  of  the  flood" — omitting  Ham, 
that  sun-burned  giant  of  the  old  world,  and  Canaan,  whose 
one  mockery  has  been  fearfully  avenged — we  see  Nimrod,  the 
mighty  hunter,  towering  near  the  ruins  of  the  Tower  of  Babel. 
A  savage,  primeval  form  he  seems,  looming  large  among  the 
mists  of  the  past,  dressed  in  a  reeking  lion  hide,  measuring  a 
wilderness  of  destructive  creatures  in  his  glance,  and  drawing  a 
bow,  from  which  you  might  foncy  that  shaft  newly  discharged 
which,  as  bold  Chapman  assures  us,  was 

"  Shot  at  tlie  sun  by  angry  Hercules, 
And  into  shivers  by  the  thunder  broken." 

Indeed  the  Hercules  of  mythology  is  a  composite  of  the  ]N"im- 
rod,  and  the  Samson  of  Scripture,  with  Nirarod's  club  in  his 
hand,  and  Samson's  strength  and  blind  raging  fury  in  his  blood. 
We  come  next  to  Abraham,  the  "  friend  of  God,"  the  father 
of  the  faithful,  the  ideal  of  an  ancient  patriarch,  a  nation  ia 
himself.  His  motions  so  total  and  sublime,  like  those  of  a 
cloud  which  "  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all ;"  his  con- 
stant connection  in  all  his  wanderings  with  heaven  ;  the  knock 
of  God  coming  to  his  peaceful  tent,  and  the  emphatic  whisper 
which  told  him  to  go  westward  ;  his  fearless  obedience,  although 
not  knowing  whither  he  went ;  the  sensation  his  advent  and 
the  altars  which  he  raised  made  among  the  degraded  nations  of 
Canaan  ;  his  progress,  traced  by  the  silent  smoke  of  worship ; 
his  sudden  upstarting  into  a  warrior,  at  the  news  of  Lot's  cap- 
tivity, and  the  brave  deed  of  deliverance  which  he  wrought  for 
him  ;  the  solemn  moment  when  he  was  taken  out  by  God  be- 
low the  starry  canopy,  and  told  that  these  innumerable  orbs 
were  an  emblem  of  his  seed  for  multitude  ;  the  moment,  more 
awful  still,  when,  amid  the  fragments  of  his  sacrificial  victims, 
a  deep  sleep  came  upon  him,  and  a  horror  of  great  darkness 
came  with  it ;  his  covenant,  renewed  again  and  again  with 
Jehovah ;  the  coming  of  three  angels  to  his  tent,  to  announce 
the  birth  of  Isaac ;  his  passionate  pleading  with  God  in  be- 


858  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE. 

half  of  Sodom,  then  near  to  destruction — a  pleading  which  more 
than  once  touches  the  brink  of  the  presumptuous,  and  yet  evites 
it  by  an  hairVbreadth ;  his  sending  forth  of  Hagar  and  her 
son  Ishmael  into  the  wilderness — a  tale  touching  the  inmost 
fountains  of  the  heart ;  and,  above  all,  his  princely  journey  to 
the  Mount  Moriah,  with  his  son  Isaac,  "  led  as  a  lamb  to  the 
slaughter,  and  as  a  sheep  before  her  shearers  was  dumb" — a 
scene  where  filicide  itself  seems  just  mounting  into  a  sacrament, 
and  the  knife-point  of  a  son's  sacrifice  is  reddening  with  glory, 
■when  God  mercifully  interferes  to  accept  the  will  for  the  deed, 
and  the  ram  for  the  child,  are  a  few  of  the  incidents  of  Lis  re- 
markable story. 

The  great  charm  of  Abraham's  character,  is  its  union  of  sim- 
plicity with  grandeur.  He  rises  like  one  of  those  great  stones 
which  are  found  standing  alone  in  the  wilderness,  so  quiet  in 
their  age,  so  unique  in  their  structure,  and  yet  on  which,  if  tra- 
dition be  believed,  angels  have  rested,  where  sacrifices  have  been 
offered  up,  and  round  which,  in  other  days,  throngs  of  worship- 
ers have  assembled.  His  prayers  pierce  the  heavens  with  the 
reverent  daring  of  one  of  the  mountain  altars  of  nature.  He 
is  at  once  a  shepherd  and  a  soldier.  He  is  true  to  the  living, 
and  jealous  of  the  honor  of  the  ashes  of  the  dead.  He  is  a 
plain  man,  dwelling  in  tents,  and  yet  a  prince  with  men  and 
God.  Peace  to  his  large  and  noble  dust,  as  it  reclines  near  that 
of  his  beloved  Sarah,  in  the  still  cave  of  Machpelah.  He  was 
one  of  the  simple,  harmless,  elephantine  products  of  an  age 
when  it  was  not  a  "  humble  thing  to  be  a  man,"  and  when 
all  the  "  giants  in  those  days"  were  not  robbers  and  oppressors. 

Across  the  history  of  Abraham  there  shoot  two  curious  epi- 
sodical passages,  both  wrapt  in  the  grandeur,  and  one  in  the 
gloom,  of  mystery.  One  is  the  story  of  Melchisedec.  "  With- 
out father,  without  mother,  without  beginning  of  days  or  end 
of  life,"  this  man  comes  suddenly  forth  from  Salem,  meets  Abra- 
ham on  his  way  from  the  slaughter  of  the  kings,  presents  bread 
and  wine,  blesses  him,  receives  tithes  of  all  the  spoils,  and  dis- 
appears, whither,  no  one  can  tell.     In  our  perplexity,  wc  can 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IX    SCRIPTURE.  359 

scarce  deem  him  a  being  of  this  earth.  "Was  he  an  Antedi- 
hivian  ?  Had  he  witnessed  the  deep  waters  ?  Was  he  Shem  ? 
Was  his  head  covered  with  hair,  which  had  been  gray  before 
the  deluge  ?  Had  that  eye  of  his  seen  Adam  and  Eve  ?  Had 
his  young  hand  toyed  with  their  coats  of  skins  ?  Or  was  he  a 
transient  incarnation  of  the  Divinity — was  this  the  Son  stepping 
down  upon  the  stage  of  his  after-labors  before  the-time  ?  We 
can  not  tell.  The  mystery  is  as  yet  impenetrable.  Stat  nominis 
umbra.  We  know  only  that  he  was  so  great,  that  Abraham 
gave  him  a  tenth  part  of  the  spoils — that  he  is  called  a  king, 
a  priest,  and  one  of  the  most  striking  emblems  of  the  Son  of 
God.  He  is  the  only  specimen  of  a  dynasty  of  monarch-priests, 
who  remind  us,  in  magnitude  and  in  mystery,  of  the  mighty 
creatures  which  tenanted  the  still  cooling  chaos  .of  the  primeval 
planet. 

A  darker  shade  rests  upon  the  cities  of  the  plain.  Imagina- 
tion shivers  as  she  ventures  to  pass,  with  the  "  two  angels,"  to 
the  house  of  Lot,  through  the  streets  of  the  doomed  cities  on 
the  last  evening  of  their  existence,  and  watches  the  bubbling 
fullness  of  a  cup,  in  which  licentiousness,  murder,  blasphemy, 
and  unnatural  lusts,  were  the  ingredients,  and  listens  to  the  cry 
of  the  city's  sin  coming  to  its  sharpest  and  shrillest  pitch  be- 
fore the  abused  door  of  the  patriarch.  We  feel  the  horrors  of 
the  night  infinitely  worse  than  the  terrors  of  the  day,  and  are 
almost  relieved,  when  after  the  brief  mockery  of  brightness, 
"  when  the  sun  rose  upon  Sodom,"  the  sky  darkens,  as,  since 
the  deluge,  it  never  darkened  before ;  and  there  begin  to  be 
wafted  down  from  above  flakes  of  flame  and  masses  of  bitumen, 
and  the  guilty  cities  are  lost  to  sight  in  the  embrace  of  a  storm 
of  fire-snow,  and  over  their  smoking  ruins  rise  the  waters  of  the 
Dead  Sea,  and  then  the  lustration  is  complete  ;  and  from  one 
of  the  fairest  pages  in  nature's  book  the  foulest  blot  of  man's 
defilement  is  in  one  morning,  by  the  tongue  of  fire  "  from  the 
Lord  out  of  heaven,"  licked  forever  away.  How  succinctly  do 
God  and  nature  always  deal  with  ripened  transgression  of 
their  laws !     How  needful  such  blood-lettings,  when  the  blood 


360  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN"   SCRIPTURE. 

has  become  desperately  foul !  And  how  sure  of  recurring  in 
every  other  age  have  those  judgments  hitherto  been,  as  if  to 
preserve  the  equilibrium  of  morals,  and  to  prevent  the  perma- 
nent degradation  of  man,  who  is  ever  and  anon  aiming  at  a 
worse  incarnation  than  his  own,  and,  but  for  such  fearful  checks, 
would  be  "  more  vile"  than  the  very  beasts  of  the  field. 

Abraham,  in  leaving  Isaac  behind  him,  left  rather  a  shadow 
than  a  son.  He  has  less  body  and  bulk,  less  grandeur,  less 
boldness,  but  shadow-hke  he  kneels,  and  looks  up  to  God  in 
imitation  of  his  original.  He  has  all  Abraham's  piety,  and 
more  than  his  peace.  His  cast  of  mind  is  given  in  one  sen- 
tence— "  And  Isaac  digged  again  the  wells  which  they  had 
digged  in  the  days  of  Abraham  his  father."  And  when  these 
wells  became  the  subject  of  contest,  he  meekly  retires  in  search 
of  others.  He  is  one  among  other  proofs,  that  the  children  of 
very  great  men  are  sometimes  inferior  to  their  parents.  The 
rationale  of  this  may  either  be  that  the  mothers  are  inferior  to 
their  mates,  or  that  the  education  of  the  children  of  men  much 
engrossed  in  public  affiiirs,  is  often  neglected  ;  or  that  there  is, 
what  we  may  call,  either  an  exhaustion  or  an  economy  in  na- 
ture, which  makes  the  sight  of  two  men  of  eminence  in  the 
same  fomily,  or  of  two  men  of  eminence  in  the  relation  of  father 
or  son  to  each  other,  more  rare  than  the  reverse.  Glorious  ex- 
ceptions will  occur,  such  as  David  and  Solomon,  Chatham  and 
Pitt,  to  the  memory  of  our  readers ;  but  still  there  have  been  a 
Solomon  and  a  Rehoboam,  a  Ilezekiah  and  a  Manasseh,  an 
Oliver  and  a  Richard  Cromwell,  a  Milton  and  a  Mrs.  Clarke, 
his  daughter,  and  a  thousand  more,  proving  that  lofty  hills  are 
apt  to  subside  into  lowly  hollows. 

ISTevertheless,  to  Isaac  there  pertained  certain  amiable  and 
uncommon  properties.  He  is,  perhaps,  the  most  blameless  of 
all  characters  in  Scripture  but  07ie.  Save  a  single  falsehood, 
absolutely  nothing  is  recorded  against  him.  He  was  the  faith- 
ful husband  of  one  wife.  He  seems,  too,  to  have  possessed  a 
certain  gentleness,  sweetness,  and  simplicity  of  disposition.  His 
figure,  "  going  forth  into  the  fields  to  meditate  at  the  evening 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS   IN    SCRIPTURE.  361 

tade,"  is  painted  forever  on  the  eye  of  the  world.  An  action 
common  now  becomes  glorified  in  the  Hg'ht  of  the  past.  It  is 
the  same  with  David's  going  to  his  chamber  to  weep,  and  with 
Christ's  walking  out  "  'mid  ripe  corn  on  the  Sabbath-day.'' 
And  it  seems  no  wonder,  that  the  same  person  who  had  medi- 
tated ia  his  early  days  should,  in  his  old  age,  '*remble  very 
exceedingly"  at  the  discovery  of  the  fraud  practiced  on  him  by 
his  son  Jacob.  It  is  the  genuine  history  of  his  peculiar  tem- 
perament. 

Jacob,  again,  is  a  thorough  Jew.  In  him,  subtiity,  love  of 
this  world's  goods,  and  timidity,  co-exist  with  profound  attach- 
ment to  the  God  of  his  fathers,  and  ardent  devotion.  His  pa- 
tience, too,  in  so  waiting  and  working  for  his  bride,  reminds 
you  of  that  of  his  people,  who  have,  for  ages,  been  looking  up 
to  a  heaven,  which,  whether  it  be  black  or  bright,  never  opens, 
nor  ever  shall,  to  let  forth  their  beloved  Messiah. 

The  poetical  incidents  in  Jacob's  history  are  exquisitely  pe- 
culiar and  interesting.  Indeed,  his  whole  life  is  as  entertaining 
and  varied  as  a  romance.  There  is  his  journey  to  Padan-aram, 
and  the  dream,  which,  says  Hazlitt,  "  cast  a  light  upon  the 
lonely  place,  which  shall  never  pass  away."  No  picture  has 
hitherto  done  this  complete  justice.  Even  Rubens  has  but 
dimly  expressed  the  ideal  of  the  smiling  face  of  the  young 
patriarch,  itself  a  dream  of  beauty — the  vast  silent  desert, 
stretching  like  eternity  around — the  stone  pillar,  shining  hke  a 
lump  of  gold  in  the  radiance — and  the  undefined  blaze  of  splen- 
dor (like  a  ladder,  mountain,  or  stair ;  the  original  word  is 
uncertain),  rising  up  in  brightening  gradations,  till  lost  in  one 
abyss  of  crudded  glory,  and  with  angelic  shapes  swimming  up 
and  down,  like  motes  of  light,  in  the  liquid  luster.  And  who 
shall  paint  the  bewildered  and  amazed  aspect  of  the  awakened 
patriarch,  when,  looking  around  and  above,  he  finds  the  warm 
light  of  the  vision  gone,  the  dread  yet  tender,  voice  past,  and 
nothing  around  him  but  the  dark  desert,  nothing  beside  him 
but  the  stone  pillow,  and  the  cold  light  of  the  stars  of  morning 

Q 


3G2  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE. 

above,  and  when  he  says,  "  Surely  the  Lord  is  in  this  place, 
and  I  knew  it  not  ?" 

The  scenes  which  follow  around  the  well-side,  where  he  met 
the  daughters  of  Laban,  are  in  the  sweetest  pastoral  vein.  His 
meeting  with  Esau  has  made  many  a  heart  overflow  in  tears. 
But  a  deeper  and  stranger  interest  surrounds  him,  as  he  wrestles 
at  Peniel,  until  the  dawning  of  the  day,  with  that  mysterious 
figure  of  a  "  man"  who  seems  to  drop  at  once  from  heaven, 
shapes  into  dubious  form  during  the  shadows  of  the  night,  and 
melts  away  in  the  morning  sunshine.  The  passage  is  one  of 
those  strange  pits  of  darkness  which  occur  amid  the  narrative 
plains  of  the  Pentateuch,  taking  you  down  in  an  instant,  like 
Joseph,  out  of  the  clear  shining  of  the  sun,  into  a  place  of  im- 
penetrable mystery.  Yet  it  is  full  of  deep  significance.  It  is 
one  of  many  proofs  that  the  Word,  ere  identifying  himself  with 
flesh,  tried  on,  once  and  again,  if  we  may  so  speak,  the  robe  of 
human  nature,  which  he  was  everlastingly  to  wear.  "  Jacob 
called  the  name  of  the  jilace  Peniel :  for  I  have  seen  God  face 
io  face,  and  my  life  is  preserved." 

We  must  plead  guilty,  too,  to  an  attachment  to  poor  Esau. 
We  like  him  as  he  "comes  out  red"  even  "all  over  hke  an 
hairy  garment."  We  love  to  watch  him  in  his  impetuous  way 
over  the  mountains  and  the  valleys,  another  Nimrod,  a  mighty 
hunter,  but  not  "  before  the  Lord."  We  sigh  as  we  see  him 
devouring,  with  a  hunter's  hunger,  the  red  pottage,  into  which 
he  has  recklessly  shred  his  birthright.  We  pity  him  still  more,  as 
he  "  cries  with  an  exceeding  groat  and  bitter  cry,  Bless  me,  even 
me  also,  O  my  father  !"  We  feel,  as  we  witness  the  scene  of 
reconciliation  with  Jacob,  how  plaintive  is  the  grief  of  a  rugged 
nature  when  weep  it  must,  and  that  rivers  are  the  tears  of  rocks  ; 
and,  as  we  see  him,  for  the  last  time,  "  returning  on  his  way" 
to  his  own  shaggy  Seir,  to  become  the  founder  of  a  rough  race, 
inhabiting  a  country  of  fire  and  sand,  we  are  not  afraid  to  re- 
echo Isaac's  blessing  upon  his  head.  He  was  not  a  child  of 
grace,  or  of  the  promise,  but  he  was  a  sincere  and  stalwart  son 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN"    SCRIPTURE.  363 

of  nature,  with  a  "  strong  heart,  fit  to  be  the  first  strong  heart 
of  a  people." 

Who  forgets  the  affecting  circumstances  of  Rachel's  death  in 
child-birth,  when  nature  in  lier  called  the  child  Benoni,  the  "  son 
of  my  sorrow,"  and  grace  in  Jacob  called  him  Benjamin,  the 
"  son  of  my  right  hand  ?"  The  history  of  Joseph,  again,  is  a 
succession  of  scenes,  constituting  the  finest  prose  drama  in  the 
world.  If  ever  drama  possessed  all  the  constituents  of  that 
species  of  composition,  unity  of  plot,  a  "  beginning,  middle,  and 
end,"  vicissitude  of  interest,  variety  of  character,  pathos  of  feel- 
ing, elegance  of  costume,  and  simplicity  of  language,  it  is  this. 
Its  comm.encement  is  so  simple,  its  denouement  so  ingenious,  its 
close  so  satisfactory  and  triumphant !  And  yet  we  never  lose 
the  feeling  for  a  moment — "  This  is  truth,  although  truth 
stranger  far  than  fiction."  And  just  as  a  drama  looks  more 
beautiful  when  spotted  with  lyrics,  we  have  here  one  spot,  at 
least,  of  transcendent  beauty — Jacob's  blessing,  namely,  when 
a-dying,  over  his  children.  It  is  intensely  figurative.  He  ranges 
his  children,  hke  zodiacal  signs,  around  his  bed,  not  by  name 
only,  but  by  emblem.  Reuben  is  a  foul  and  trembling  wave  ; 
Simeon  and  Levi  are  "instruments  of  cruelty;"  Judah  is  a 
lion  ;  Zebulun's  sign  is  a  ship ;  Issachar  is  a  strong,  couching 
5ss  ;  Dan  is  a  serpent  by  the  way  ;  Gad  is  a  troop  ;  Asher,  a 
loaf  of  rich  bread  ;  Naphtali  is  a  hind  let  loose  ;  Joseph  is  a 
fruitful  bough  ;  and  Benjamin  is  a  ravening  wolf. 

Passing  farther  down  into  the  history,  and  omitting  many 
points  and  characters  touched  on  before,  we  mark  with  interest 
the  spies  on  their  v/ay  to  the  land  of  promise.  They  appear 
one  company  as  they  go*  as  they  return,  they  bear  between 
them  the  same  grapes  of  Eschol,  and  yet  how  different  the  re- 
ports they  bring  !  Even  the  land  flovv'ing  with  milk  and  honey, 
has  two  sides  to  two  different  sets  of  eyes  and  hearts.  To  see 
the  Millennial  land,  to  see  heaven  aright,  there  must,  in  liko 
manner,  be  purged  hearts,  prepared  spirits,  eyes  cleansed  with 
"  euphrasy  and  rue."  Let  two  men,  of  different  faiths  and 
tempers,  enter  into  one  peaceful  and  Christian  house,  they  will 


S64  THE   POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURfi. 

bring  back  accounts  conflicting  to  contradiction :  one  has  seen 
nothing  but  dull  commonplace,  or  harsh  austerity  ;  the  other 
has  descried  the  quiet  luster  of  the  peace  that  passeth  under- 
standing, and  the  half-formed  halo  of  the  joy  that  is  unspeak^ 
able,  and  full  of  glory.     Coleridge  says  of  nature — 

"  0,  lady,  we  receive  but  what  we  give  ; 
Ours  is  her  luminous  vesture,  ours  her  shroud." 

This  is  but  a  part  of  the  truth.  We  must  meet  nature,  man, 
God  himself,  and  his  glory,  half-way.  He  gives  a  sun  or  a 
Shekinah  to  be  admired ;  but,  on  our  part,  there  must  be  a 
soul  to  admire  the  same.  Nay,  in  a  profounder  sense  still,  God 
gives  all — the  beauty,  and  the  sense  of  it — the  landscape,  and 
the  eye — the  moral  loveliness,  and  the  moral  vision — the  heaven, 
and  the  heart — and  is  at  once  the  adored  and  the  adorer :  "  for 
o/him,  and  through  him,  and  to  him,  are  all  things — to  whom 
be  glory  forever.     Amen." 

Among  the  spies,  there  stood  up  two  men  of  clear  insight  and 
firm  faith,  Caleb  and  Joshua.  They  were  in  the  minority,  but 
they  were  right.  Overborne  by  numbers  at  first,  their  word 
became  stronger  every  hour,  till  it  had  been  madness  to  deny  it. 
Thus  it  is  always  with  the  deeper  and  stronger  insight  of  true 
men.  It  increases,  because  it  is  real,  as  well  as  strong ;  whereas, 
the  eyesight  of  the  multitude,  defective  at  first,  soon  weakens 
and  fades  away. 

Two  other  incidents  in  the  history  of  Israel,  ere  the  Jordan 
was  passed,  must  be  noticed:  the  rebelHon  of  Korah,  and  the 
rise  of  Phinehas.  There  are  forcefl  and  shallow  eruptions  in 
the  moral  and  political  world,  which  have  little  connection  with 
its  general  current.  They  resemble  breakings  out  on  the  skin, 
rather  than  attacks  on  the  seat  of  life ;  they  are  transient  re- 
volts, and  not  revolutions,  nor  hardly  rebellions.  The  wise 
man  is  ever  ready  to  distinguish  their  true  character,  and  to 
take  his  measures  accordingly.  While  he  must  bow  before  an 
inevitable  and  profound  convulsion  of  the  internal  elements,  the 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE.  865 

outbreaks  of  petty  disaffection  he  will  at  once  burn  away.  The 
revolt  of  Kurah  and  his  company  had  an  imposing  aspect,  but 
was,  in  reahty,  skin-deep.  13y  one  energetic  effuit,  therefore, 
by  one  appeal  to  the  prayer  hearing  guardian  of  the  camp  of 
Israel,  Moses  removes  it.  The  whole  disaffection  is  gathered 
into  one  point — into  one  inch,  as  it  w^ere,  of  envious  fury  against 
Moses  and  Aaron  ;  and  below  that  inch,  destruction  yawns  but 
once,  and  for  a  moment,  and  it  sinks  down  and  disappears  for- 
ever. With  censer  in  hand,  with  their  strange  fire  burning  in 
it,  those  would-be  priests  are  swallowed  up  and  hid,  killed  and 
buried,  and  a  clean,  and  smooth,  and  sandy  surface,  conceals 
the  particulars  of  their  horrible  doom. 

A  deeper  disaffection  soon  after  seizes  the  camp.  It  is  not 
this  time  so  much  against  Moses,  as  it  is  against  God ;  it  is  not 
the  disaffection  of  a  clan  of  nobles,  but  of  many  of  the  congre- 
gation. "  Israel  joins  himself  unto  Baal-peor."  Moses  him- 
self is  appalled.  The  plague  is  in  the  camp.  He  has  received 
a  command,  and  has  circulated  it,  to  "  hang  up  the  heads  of  the 
offenders."  But  he  is  yet  hesitating  about  its  execution,  when, 
lo !  the  sin  comes  to  its  open  climax  in  his  very  sight,  and  in 
that  of  the  congregation,  who  were  weeping  for  it  before  the 
tabernacle;  an  "Israelite  brings  unto  his  brethren  aMidianitish 
woman,"  and  then  the  "  wild  justice"  of  nature  can  slumber  no 
more.  Phinehas,  an  obscure  priest,  arises,  pierces  them  both 
through  with  his  dart,  and  the  plague  straightway  is  stayed. 
So,  when  rampant  and  inveterate  evils  reach  their  point,  the 
schemes  of  the  wise  are  not  required.  God  selects  the  nearest 
instruments,  and  the  "  things  that  are  not,"  the  very  nonenti- 
ties of  this  world,  bring  to  naught  the  things  which  are,  but 
should  not  continue  to  be. 

The  Book  of  Judges  is  the  most  miscellaneous  history  in 
Scripture.  It  records  the  events  of  a  period  when  every  man 
did  as  it  was  right  in  his  own  eyes.  In  this  anarchy,  as  in  all 
subsequent  anarchies,  there  arose  many  peculiar  characters,  who 
rather  defended  God's  cause  by  their  prowess,  than  adorned  it 
by  their  piety.     Still  the  short  dagger  of  Ehud  gleams  upon 


366  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE. 

US,  and  his  words — "  I  have  a  message  fi'om  God  unto  thee"— 
ring  in  our  ears,  as  did  thej  once  in  Eglon's,  the  King  of  Moab. 
The  ox-goad  of  Shamgar,  too,  is  still  preserved  in  the  museum 
of  our  memor3^  Was  it  not  one  of  the  curiosities  shown  to 
Christian  in  the  house  which  is  called  Beautiful  ?  Gideon's 
famous  emblems  were  there  also — the  "  fleece,"  the  cake  ftilling 
on  the  tent,  besides  the  pitchers,  the  lamj^s,  and  the  trumpets 
of  his  wondrous  warfare.  Then  there  succeed  three  heroes, 
each  with  a  bend  sinister  either  in  his  birth  or  his  character. 
Abimelech,  Jephtha,  and  Samson,  remind  us  of  Montrose, 
Claverhouse,  and  Rob  Roy,  in  their  close  succession,  equivocal 
reputation,  and  daring  power  and  courage,  and  present  us  with 
the  pictures  of  the  first  cleft  through  the  skull  by  a  stone  from 
a  woman's  hand,  the  second  presiding  at  his  daughter's  sacri- 
fice, and  the  third  blinded,  and  bound  in  Delilah's  lap. 

Samson,  a  personage  with  whom  the  blind  giant  of  English 
poetry  thought  proper  to  measure  his  old  but  unfaded  strength, 
is  less  remarkable,  for  beautiful  or  holy  interest,  than  for  strik- 
ing points  :  such  as  his  elephantine  mildness,  ere  he  was  roused 
— the  strong  impulses  which  came  upon  him,  and  seemed  neces- 
sary to  develop  his  full  powers — his  unconsciousness,  even  in 
his  mightiest  feats,  of  doing,  or  afterward  having  done,  any 
thing  extraordinary — his  lion-like  love  of  solitude — his  magna- 
nimity— his  childlike  simplicity — his  tame  subjection  to  female 
influence,  and  the  sacred  trust  in  which  he  held  his  unequaled 
energies.  In  the  complete  assortment  and  artful  presentment 
of  Samson's  qualities  as  those  of  a  patriot-hero,  there  is  more 
of  the  mythic  semblance  than  in  the  history  of  any  other  of  the 
Scripture  worthies  ;  but  the  distinct  and  definite  account  given 
of  his  parentage,  and  the  particulars  of  his  death,  as  well  as 
Paul's  allusion  to  him  in  the  Hebrews,  as  an  historical  character, 
forbid  us  to  doubt  his  reality.  His  religion,  which  has  been 
questioned,  is  proved  by  the  success,  if  not  by  the  spirit,  of  his 
last  prayer. 

The  name  of  Ruth  suggests  the  other  female  characters  iu 
Scripture.     A  modest  rosary  might  be  strung  from  their  names. 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE.  367 

Simplicity,  innocence,  gentleness,  piety,  and  devotedness  to 
tiieir  husbands,  falhi^'s,  or  God,  are  qualities  distinguishing-  the 
mjijority.  Tiiere  is  little  individnalitij  of  excellence.  iNaomi 
is  an  old  Ruth,  Ruth  a  young  Naomi — Hannah  a  middle-aged 
Naomi  or  Ruth — Mary,  Lydia,  Anna,  and  twenty  others,  aro 
similar  in  all  hut  age  and  circumstances.  Deborah,  indeed, 
towers  over  the  rest,  holding  her  harp  and  staff-scepter  upon 
the  top  of  Tabor.  Miriam,  with  timbrel  m  her  hand,  seems  to 
emulate  Deborah's  prospective  grandeur,  till  the  leprosy  of  envy 
smites  her  forehead,  and  she  is  "  shut  out  seven  days."  Next 
to  them,  the  little  maiden  in  the  fiimily  of  Naaraan  has  her  own 
niche,  and  close  to  her  appear  the  "  widow  with  the  two  mites  ;'' 
Mary  Magdalene  ;  the  nameless  woman,  "  who  loved  much, 
and  to  whom  much  was  forgiven  ;"  and  she,  also  nameless,  of 
Samaria ;  besides  Phebe,  Priscilla,  and  the  elect  lady.  Nor 
must  Esther,  the  magnificent  and  maidenly  upstart,  nor  the 
wise  and  wealthy  Queen  of  Sheba,  be  forgotten.  Ignoble  or 
cruel  females  are  also  to  be  found,  such  as  Jezebel,  and  she  who, 
in  the  quaint  language  of  old  Fuller,  "  danced  off  the  head  of 
John  the  Baptist,"  and  Sapphira,  and  Bernice. 

The  mention  of  the  beautiful  suggests  to  us  the  name  of 
Absalom,  the  most  beautiful  and  foolish  of  the  sons  of  men.  He 
is  a  striking  illustration  of  the  austere  and  awful  compensations 
of  the  universe.  We  find  a  strict  parsimony  always  exercised 
in  doling  out  the  precious  gifts  of  the  Creator.  The  thorn  and 
the  rose  growing  on  one  stem  ;  poison  and  beauty  dividing  the 
serpent  between  them ;  fidelity,  sagacity,  and  niadness,  equally 
characterizing  the  canine  species ;  sense,  mildness,  power,  and 
clumsiness,  united  in  the  elephant ;  the  peacock,  with  his  splen- 
did plumage  and  hideous  scream ;  the  nightingale,  with  her 
sober  livery  and  matchless  song;  the  tropical  clime,  with  its 
magnificent  vegetation,  its  diseases,  and  its  lothsome  reptile^ 
— these  apparent  anomalies  are  probably  fragments  of  one  wide 
law,  portions  of  one  wise,  benevolent,  but  mysterious  arrange- 
ment. "  Nothing  is  given,  all  things  are  sold."  Thus,  Absalom, 
with  intellect,  popular  graces,  and  the  face  and  form  of  an  angel, 


S68  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE. 

began  as  a  spoiled  child,  and  ended  in  a  composite  of  fool  and 
villain.  Like  the  horns  of  the  stag  in  "the  fable,  his  long  hair, 
which  had  been  his  glory,  became  his  ruin.  "What  a  pitiful  and 
shocking  figure  he  presents,  dangling  from  the  oak,  and  with 
Joab's  dart  quivering  in  his  heart !  He  lived  and  died  "  child- 
less," but  has  had  a  large  spiritual  seed.  Men  speak  with  dis'- 
gust  of  the  griffins  and  other  motley  forms  of  heraldry ;  and 
with  a  kind  of  shudder  of  that  stranger  heraldry  of  nature, 
the  quaint  composites  of  geology  ;  but  such  combinations  as 
Absalom^  of  "Beauty  and  the  Beast" — such  moral  para- 
doxes— are  ineffably  more  appalling  and  more  unaccountable. 

Joab,  whom  we  have  just  mentioned,  shines  in  a  savage  and 
lurid  light.  Faithful,  as  his  shadow,  to  David,  he  is  to  all  other 
"  fierce  as  ten  furies,"  and  "  false  as  hell."  He  i&  one  of  the 
homicides  of  history.  His  soul  is  incarnate  in  his  sword.  To 
"  dare,  and  to  dare,  and  to  dare,"  is  his  whole  creed  and  mo- 
rality. Yet  his  decision,  his  thorough-going  courage,  his  fidel- 
ity, and  his  rough,  strong  sense,  give  him  great  influence  over 
David,  who  fears,  hates,  but  can  not  part  with,  and  dare  not 
quarrel  with  him.  Thus,  men  of  genius  often  yield  to  the 
power  of  men,  who  possess  mere  rude  intellect  and  a  determined 
will.  Men  of  genius  fluctuate,  like  the  wide,  uncertain  ocean ; 
men  of  will  pass  on,  and  pierce  it  with  an  iron  prow. 

The  next  character  of  much  interest,  except  Elijah,  already 
characterized,  is  Elisha.  He  is  a  soft  and  moonlight  reflection 
of  his  master.  Elijah  floats  up  in  fire  to  heaven  ;  Elisha  makes 
iron  swim  on  the  waters.  Elijah  commands  rain  from  heaven 
to  stay  the  progress  of  famine ;  Elisha  obtains  the  same  pur- 
pose, by  frightening  away  the  Syrians  from  their  camp.  Elijah 
brings  down  fire  from  the  clouds  to  kill ;  Elisha  sprinkles  meal 
into  the  pot  to  cure.  Elijah  passes  into  heaven — the  ''  nearest 
way  to  the  celestial  gate" — far  above  the  valley  and  the  shadow 
of  death ;  Elisha  dies  in  his  bed,  although  even  there  he  is 
great,  infusing  migbt  and  the  prophecy  of  victory  into  the 
hands  of  Joash,  as  he  shoots  his  emblematic  arrows  against  the 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    m    SCRIPTURE.  369 

Syrian  foe ;  and  did  not  his  very  bones  in  the  grave  revive  the 
dead? 

But,  perhaps,  nowhere  does  this  prophet  assume  a  more  dig- 
nified aspect  than  in  reference  to  Naaman  and  Gehazi.  Never 
was  a  more  singular  group  assembled  than  that  which,  on 
Naamau's  return  from  Jordan,  met  at  Elisha's  humble  door. 
Here  stands  the  prophet,  in  serene  self-control,  in  majestic  sim- 
plicity, declining  the  offered  reward.  There,  Naaman,  the  gene- 
rous and  noble,  slowly,  reluctantly  returns  the  money  into  the 
bag.  Behind  him,  his  servants  stare  out  their  wide-mouthed 
astonishment  at  the  scene ;  and,  in  a  corner,  you  see  the  mean 
Gehazi,  his  eye  glistening  and  his  face  falling,  as  he  loses  sight, 
he  fears  forever,  of  his  darling  coin.  Equally  striking  is  Elisha's 
-interview  with  him,  on  his  return  from  his  fraudful  following  of 
the  Syrian.  Gehazi  shrinks  under  his  eye,  as  he  says — "  Went 
not  mine  heart  with  thee,  when  the  man  turned  again  from  his 
chariot  to  meet  thee  ?"  Forth,  thou  base  one,  from  my  presence  ! 
But,  ere  going,  take  my  gift,  as  thou  hast  taken  Naaraan's.  He 
gave  thee  two  talents  of  silver,  which  will  support  thee  for  only 
a  few  years ;  my  present  will  last  thee  for  life,  and  be  handed 
down  as  an  heirloom  to  thy  seed.  Thou  hast  taken  the  money ; 
take  now  the  stamp  with  it.  Let  the  Syrian's  leprosy  follow 
his  lucre.  "  The  leprosy  of  jS'aaman  shall  cleave  unto  thee,  and 
unto  thy  seed  forever."  And  speechless,  confounded,  feeling 
the  white  heat  of  the  fell  disease  beginning  to  burn  upon  his 
brow,  he  less  goes  than  vanishes  from  the  prophet's  presence, 
"  a  leper  as  white  as  snow." 

Certain  characters  of  energetic  and  various  evil  now  pass  over 
our  page.  Hazael  holds  up  in  his  hand  the  wet  cloth  with 
•which  he  has  choked  his  master,  and  seems  to  say — "That 
is  my  flag  and  terrible  title  to  fame."  Rabshakeh  seems  to 
rail  on  from  the  wall  for  evermore.  Jehu,  who  is  just  Joab 
mounted  in  a  chariot,  driveth  furiously  to  do  his  brief  work 
of  destruction,  and  then  to  commence  an  inglorious  and  god- 
less reign.  And  Haman,  after  conspiring  against  the  life  of 
a  nation,  has  his  "  face  covered"  in  awful  silence,  and  hangs 


870  THE   POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE. 

on  his  own  gallows — a  substitute,  without  merit  and  with- 
out honor,  for  a  whole  people.  Ravens  these,  preserved  in 
Noah's  ark,  but  not  the  less  birds  of  foul  feeding  and  of  bad 
omen. 

In  fine  contrast  with  them,  appear  Mordecai,  Ezra,  and  Ne- 
hemiah.  Mordecai — that  silent  Jew — sits  at  the  kino-'s  ffate, 
an  eternal  emblem  of  the  amari  aliquid — the  sad  something, 
■which  not  only  mars  the  joy  of  wicked  men,  but  infects  the  lot 
of  all.  That  silent,  somber  Jew,  do  not  seek  to  approach  or  to 
disturb !  Leave  him  alone ;  for,  though  he  seems  a  serpent,  if 
you  touch  him,  he  may  start  up  the  enemy : 

*'  That  fiend,  whose  ghastly  presence  ever 
Near  thee,  like  thy  shadow,  hangs. 
Dream  not  to  chase ;  the  mad  endeavor 
"Would  scourge  thee  to  severer  pangs. 
Be  as  thou  art,  thy  settled  fate, 
Dark  as  it  is,  all  change  would  aggravate." 

Ezra  again  figures  as  the  wise  counselor  and  diligent  scribe ; 
and  Nehemiah,  the  generous,  bold,  cautious,  and  devout  "  king's 
cupbearer,"  has  left  us  one  of  the  first  and  most  delightful  of 
autobiographies.  Honor  to  him,  who  still  seems  to  stand  at 
the  unfinished  wall,  while  over  his  head  the  "  stars"  are  coming 
out,  with  a  trowel  in  one  hand,  and  a  sword  in  the  other  I  It 
is  the  attitude  of  man,  to  whom  the  command  has  come  with 
burning  urgency — "  Work  God's  work,  and  resist  the  enemies 
of  thy  soul,  even  unto  blood,  striving  against  sin."  How  strik- 
ing,  too,  is  the  heroism  of  his  language,  when  tempted  to  hold 
a  conference  with  his  subtile  foes.  "  I  am  doing  a  great  work, 
so  that  I  can  not  come  down ;"  or  when  urged  to  flee  into  the 
temple  to  save  his  life,  he  said,  "  Shall  such  a  man  as  I  flee  V 
There  spoke  a  genuine  ancient  Puritan — a  Jewish  Hampden 
or  Cromwell. 

We  pass  now  to  the  New  Testament,  and  find  John  the 
Baptist  standing  upon  its  yery  threshold.  We  remember  the 
Bingular  circumstances  of  this  man's  birth,  and  the  strange  pro- 


THE  POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IX    SCRIPTURE.  37l 

phecy  that  lay  aforetime  on  liim.  He  was  to  be  the  prophet  of 
the  lligliest,  and  to  go  before  the  Lord  to  prepare  his  ways. 
But  previously  jie  had  to  underg-o  a  severe  and  secret  training: 
*' lie  waxed  strong  in  spirit,  and  was  in  tlie  deserts  till  the  day 
of  his  showing  unto  Israel."  He  was  to  come  forth  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a  mighty  and  dauntless  reformer,  lie  was  to  stem  the 
torrent  of  a  godless  age,  and  to  stem  it  at  first  alone.  It  was 
fit,  then^  that  he  should  obtain  a  hardihood  of  temper,  an  in- 
difierence  to  reproach,  and  a  defiance  of  danger — that  he  should 
be  able  to  confront  a  tyrant,  and  rebuke  a  Pharisee,  and  counsel 
a  soldier,  and  "  know  how  to  die."  And  where  did  he  receive 
this  strength  of  spirit  ?  Where  was  he  nursed  and  hardened 
into  a  hero  and  a  reformer  ?  In  an  appropriate  school — in  the 
deserts.  There  he  received  his  prophetical  education.  He  at- 
tended no  school  of  the  prophets,  he  sat  at  the  feet  of  no 
Gamaliel ;  but  among  the  rocks,  and  the  caves,  and  the  soli- 
tudes of  the  wilderness,  he  extracted  the  sublime  and  stern  spirit 
of  his  office.  The  tameless  torrent,  dashing  by,  taught  him  his 
eloquence.  The  visions  of  God  furnished  him  with  his  theology. 
Perhaps,  like  Elias,  his  great  prototype,  he  took  a  journey  to 
Horeb,  the  Mount  of  God ;  stood  upon  the  black  brow  of 
Sinai;  and  imbibed  the  remanent  influence  which  still  floated 
round  that  hill  of  fear.  Furnished  he  must  be,  in  no  ordinary 
measure,  for  the  duties  of  this  extraordinary  office.  He  was 
the  immediate  forerunner  of  the  Messiah.  His  Master's  feet 
were  just  behind  him.  He  seemed  afraid  of  being  overtaken. 
He  had  but  the  one  brief,  bright  hour  of  the  morning  star. 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness  was  soon  to  darken  his  beams,  and 
melt  him  down  in  the  hght  of  the  new  economy. 

Hence,  his  sermons  are  very  short.  They  were  the  broken 
and  breathless  cries  of  a  messenger,  who  is  barely  in  time  to 
announce  the  coming  of  his  Lord.  "  Repent  ye  !  Be  baptized  ! 
Behold  the  Lamb  of  God  !  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  at  hand  !" 
He  w^  a  voice — a  stern  and  melancholy  voice — "  the  voice  of 
one  crying  in  the  wilderness."  His  aspect  was  in  keeping  with 
his  mission.     It  was  somewhat  wild  and  salvage.     He  was  clad 


SV^  THE   POETICAL   CHARACTERS   IN   SCRIPTURE. 

in  camel's  hair,  and  had  a  leathern  girdle  about  his  loins.  His 
food  was  locusts  and  wild  honey.  Such  was  the  apparition 
•who,  standing  with  one  foot  in  the  desert,  and  the  other  on  the 
polluted  soil  of  Palestine,  uttered  his  stern  and  continuous  cries. 
Men  saw  in  him  a  resuscitation  of  the  ancient  prophet.  He 
had,  indeed,  no  rhythmic  utterance,  and  no  figurative  flights  ; 
but  he  had  the  dress,  the  spirit,  the  power,  the  wild-eyed  fer- 
vor, and  the  boldness  of  his  prototypes  ;  and  hence  the  wilder- 
ness of  Jordan  rang  to  his  voice,  Judea  was  struck  to  the  heart 
at  his  appearance,  and  Jerusalem  went  out,  as  one  man,  to  his 
baptism. 

Besides  the  rough  and  furrowed  garment  of  peculiar  char- 
acter possessed  by  John,  we  are  struck  with  many  subordinate 
traits,  with  his  keen-eyed  recognition  of  Jesus,  the  wisdom 
and  prudence  he  displays  in  his  advices  to  various  classes  of 
his  auditors,  with  his  perfect  integrity  and  disinterestedness, 
and  with  the  unaffected  good  grace  with  which  he  consents 
to  be  merged  in  his  successor  and  superior.  Many  men  yield 
to  such  a  necessity  with  the  reluctance  of  those  rivers  which 
wax  intolerably  noisy  at  the  moment  they  are  joining  the 
larger  streams.  John  easily,  softly,  yet  eagerly,  sinks  on  the 
bosom  of  the  mightier  one,  and  it  becomes  a  wedding,  not  an 
extinction.        '^ 

One  bold  word  cost  him  dear.  Declined  as  he  was,  in  the 
reaction  of  his  great  popularity,  Herod  ventures  to  cast  him  into 
prison,  and  there  allows  a  rash  oath  to  a  dancing  minion  to  en- 
tangle him  in  the  ghastly  crime  of  the  murder  of  a  man  he 
esteemed.  That  head,  which  had  shone  on  the  edge  of  the  des- 
ert like  a  rising  star  of  eve,  and  been  mistaken  by  many  for 
the  head  of  the  Christ,  appears  now  all  clotted  with  gore,  and 
gray  with  previous  anguish,  upon  a  charger.  It  is  ever  thus 
that  the  world  has  used  its  protesting  and  inspired  souls.  And 
though  the  hemlock  no  more  stops  the  mouth  of  a  Socrates, 
nor  the  saw  crashes  through  the  body  of  an  Isaiah,  and  oui 
chargers  be  empty  of  such  heads  as  the  Baptist's,  yet  Wisdom's 
children  are  still  subject  to  pecuHar  pains  and  penalties — mis- 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IK    SCRIPTURE.  373 

understood,  if  not  murdered — neglected,  if  not  gagged — and,  if 
not  torn  limb  from  limb,  have,  how  often,  their  feelings  lace- 
rated, their  motives  and  their  characters  recklessly  reviled! 
The  Baptist  possesses  one  honor  altogether  peculiar  to  him- 
self. His  epitaph  was  spoken  by  Christ:  "Verily,  I  say  unto 
you,  among  them  that  are  born  of  women,  there  hath  not  risen 
a  greater  than  John  the  Baptist."  AVho  would  not  wish  to  have 
died  John's  death  twice  over,  to  have  attained  such  a  tribute 
from  such  lips  ? 

Among  Christ's  disciples,  besides  the  two  formerly  character- 
ized, stand  out  boldly  distinct  other  two — Thomas  and  Judas. 
Thomas  is  the  incarnation  of  doubt.  He  may  represent  that 
class  who  demand  demonstrative  or  sensible  evidence  for  their 
faith.  This  is  not,  perhaps,  the  highest  species  of  believers,  but 
it  is  a  class  which,  like  Thomas,  shall  yet  receive  satisfaction. 
Now,  there  are  many  Thomases,  and  they  may  probably  be 
satisfied  sooner  than  they  think,  and  sooner  than  many  of  them 
need  desire.  "  For  who  may  abide  the  day  of  his  coming  ?  and 
who  shall  stand  when  he  appeareth  ?  For  he  is  like  a  refiner's 
fire,  and  like  fuller's  soap." 

Judas  Iscariot — what  a  host  of  dark  thouo-hts  and  imaojes 
start  up  at  the  mention  of  that  detested  name !  His  name 
seems  hung  up  on  a  gallows  in  the  sight  of  all  men,  that  hu- 
man nature  might,  in  the  course  of  ages,  pay  its  full  arrears 
of  hatred,  contempt,  and  disgust,  to  the  guilt  it  represents. 
Children  lothe  him,  and  stammer  out  curses  from  their  little 
hearts.  Divines  in  every  age  have  lanched  invectives,  burning 
in  truth  and  eloquence,  against  him.  Dante  heats  for  him  a 
circle  in  hell  seven  times  hotter,  and  classes  him  next  in  crime 
to  Lucifer  himself.  Jesus  utters  but  one  word ;  but  it  is  a  fear- 
ful one — "One  of  you  is  a  devil."  To  other  criminals,  repent- 
ance, however  late,  conciliates  forgiveness,  and  suicide  procures 
an  awful  pity.  But  men  and  devils  seem  to  unite  in  trampling 
on  the  scattered  bowels  and  broken  rope  of  this  suicide.  Even 
in  the  place  of  woe,  many  will  fancy  the  poet's  words  realized 
for  him,  and  him  alone : — 


S74  THE   POETICAL   CHARACTERS   IN   SCRIPTDRB. 

"  The  common  damned  shun  his  society, 
And  look  uj)on  themselves  as  fiends  less  foul," 

His  history,  indeed,  seeras  a  frightful  anomaly,  even  in  the  an- 
nals of  crime.  He  was  a  treasurer  and  a  traitor,  an  apostle  and 
a  thief;  while  listening  to  Christ,  he  was  measuring  hina  for  the 
cross ;  when  he  sold  him,  it  was  for  the  price  of  a  dog ;  when 
he  betrayed  him,  it  was  with  a  kiss  of  hypocrisy  so  vile,  that 
it  seems  yet  to  ring  through  the  earth,  eternal  in  its  infamy ; 
when  remorse  awakened,  he  rushed  in  to  the  high-priests  with 
bloodshot  eye,  and  the  money  chinking  in  his  trembhng  hands, 
and  said — "  I  have  sinned  in  that  I  have  betrayed  the  innocent 
blood  ;"  and  to  give  the  whole  a  dark  consistency,  he  hies  to  a 
field,  and  there,  amid  the  gloom  of  night,  hangs  himself:  the 
rope  breaking,  and  his  bowels  gushing  out ;  and  we  seem  to 
hear  the  fiends,  with  a  yell  of  unusual  joy,  seizing  on  their 
prey. 

How  account  for  a  crime  and  a  character  so  portentous  and 
unnatural  as  this  ?  In  vain,  to  say  with  Whately  and  Home, 
that  Judas  betrayed  Christ  for  the  purpose  of  forcing  him  to 
reveal  himself  as  the  King  of  the  Jews.  In  this  case,  would 
Christ  have  spoken  of  him  in  language  so  strong  ?  Besides, 
Christ  had  positively  declared  that  he  was  to  die.  And  Judas 
had  been  too  long  in  Christ's  company  not  to  know  that  all  his 
words  were  sure  of  fulfillment. 

Our  notion  of  Judas  is,  that  he  "  had  a  devil,  and  was  mad" 
— that  he  was  a  demoniac — that  probably,  for  crimes  committed 
by  him  formerly,  he  was  handed  over  to  the  enemy,  and  had 
Satan  instead  of  soul.  He  became  the  mere  vessel  of  an  in- 
fernal will.  With  this  agree  many  circumstances  in  his  story, 
and  the  language  used  concerning  him  by  Christ.  His  rush  to 
suicide  especially  reminds  you  of  that  of  the  demon-filled  swine. 
In  stating  this  view,  we  do  not  mean  to  palliate  his  crime,  or 
to  whitewash  his  character.  He  had  undoubtedly  "  tempted 
the  devil,"  and  been  consigned  over  to  him  for  his  sins.  But 
the  theory  commends  itself  to  us  as  the  more  probable,  and 
as  taking  the  character   out  of  the  category  of  monsters  of 


THE    POETICAL    CHAllACTERS    IN    SCRIPTTJIIE.  S75 

>^-ickedness — -a  class  so  rare  in  the  world.  We  would,  in  short, 
divide  Judas  into  three  parts,  and  assign  one  to  guilt,  a  second 
to  madness,  and  a  third  to  hell. 

And  although  we  have,  to  complete-  the  picture  of  the  com- 
mon view  of  his  character,  spoken  of  the  demons  snatching  his 
soul,  we  are  far  enough  from  being  inclined  to  dogmatize  upon 
his  future  fate.  All  that  Peter  ventures  to  say  of  it  is,  that  be 
went  to  his  "  own  place ;"  and  God  forbid  that  we  should  dare 
to  say  any  more. 

The  Book  of  Acts  presents  us  with  a  great  many  characters, 
of  whom,  besides  the  apostles,  the  rapt  Stej^hen,  the  Ethiopian 
Eunuch,  the  brave  Cornelius,  the  most  marked  are  unhappily 
evil.  Barnabas,  Ananias,  Philip,  Aquila,  Mark,  Silas,  Timo- 
theus,  and  Luke  himself,  have  not  much  that  is  individual  and 
distinctive.  The  sameness  of  excellence  attaches  to  them  all. 
It  is  very  different  with  the  others.  Their  shades  are  all  dark, 
but  all  strikingly  discriminated. 

There  is,  for  example,  Simon  Magus,  the  begetter  and  name- 
giver  to  a  distinct  and  dreadful  crime  (Simony),  an  original 
in  wickedness,  a  genuine  and  direct  '^  child  of  hell."  'No  mis- 
take about  him.  He  thinks  every  thing,  as  well  as  every  per- 
son, "  has  its  price,"  and  would  bribe  the  very  Spirit  of  God. 
You  see  him  retiring  from  Peter's  scorn  and  curse,  blasted, 
cowering,  half-ashamed,  but  unconverted. 

Then  there  is  Herod,  appearing  on  a  set  day,  in  (as  early  his- 
torians tell  us)  a  dress  spangled  with  silver,  which,  as  it  caught 
the  sun,  shone  and  glittered,  and  giving  an  oration  to  the  people, 
who  shout,  "  It  is  a  voice  of  a  God,  not  of  a  man ;"  till,  as  he 
is  just  beginning  to  believe  the  insane  incense,  a  deputation 
from  the  grave — a  company  of  worms — claim  a  closer  audience, 
and  he  is  at  once  flattered  and  festered  to  death. 

Then  there  is  Ananias  the  liar,  smitten  down  amid  his  sin, 
and  seen  writhing  in  the  lightnings  of  Peter's  eye. 

Then  there  is  Elyraas  the  Sorcerer,  reduced  in  a  moment  to 
the  level  of  his  own  gods,  who  have  "  eyes,  but  see  not,"  and 


SYG  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE. 

made  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  earnest,  as  he  gropes  in  vain 
to  find  the  day. 

Then  there  is  Gallio,  another  great  original  in  the  world  of 
evil,  the  first  representative  of  a  large  class  who,  in  all  ages 
succeeding,  have  thrown  the  chill  of  their  careless  and  cutting 
sneer  upon  all  that  is  earnest  and  lofty  in  nature  or  man,  in  life 
or  in  religion. 

Then  there  is  the  town-clerk  of  Ephesus,  one  of  those  persons 
who  substitute  prudence  for  i)iety,  and  who  find  a  sun  in  the 
face  of  a  time-piece — who  tell  men  when  they  are  not  to  act, 
but  never  when  the  hour  of  action  has  fully  come,  and  when 
delays  are  as  contemptible  as  they  are  dangerous. 

Then  there  is  Tertullus  the  tool,  servile,  wiry,  accommodat- 
ing, plausible ;  who  talks,  but  never  speaks  ;  and  whose  character 
may  be  studied  as  representing,  in  a  full  and  ideal  manner,  all 
courtly  pleaders  who  have  since  appeared,  as  well  as  many  who 
have  pleaded  in  nobler  causes. 

Then  there  is  Felix,  whom  one  trembling  has  immortalized. 
Kude  the  lyre ;  but  a  great  master  stood  once  before  it,  and  it 
vibrated  to  his  touch.  Even  nettleshade  has  sometimes  been 
made  musical  in  the  blast. 

Then  there  is  Agrippa,  the  "almost  Christian" — one  of 
thousands  who,  were  Christianity  and  the  thrill  produced  by 
eloquence  the  same  thing,  would  be  behevers  ;  but  who,  as  it 
is,  will  lose  heaven  by  a  hair's-breadth,  and  feel  little  sorrow  ! 

Then  there  is  Festus,  the  emblem  of  the  cool,  intellectual 
man,  who  finds  an  easy  solution  for  the  problem  of  earnest- 
ness, or  genius,  or  enthusiasm,  or  religion — a  problem  which, 
otherwise,  would  distress  and  disturb  him  in  the  cheap  cry 
— "  It  is  madness — Paul,  Burke,  Chalmers,  and  Irving,  were 
mad." 

Then,  in  the  Epistles,  we  find  a  glimpse,  and  no  more,  of 
Nero,  the  mysterious  tyrant  of  Rome,  the  delicate  infernal,  the 
demon  in  elegant  undress,  the  musical  murderer,  so  whimsi- 
cally graceful  in  the  management  of  his  horrors,  combining  the 
Boul  of  a  Moloch  with  the  subtilty  and  attractiveness  of  man- 


THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE.  377 

ner  possessed  by  a  Belial.  We  cnn  fancy  Paul,  whose  siibtilty 
was  not  the  least  of  his  powers,  foiling  the  tyrant  at  his  own 
weapons,  and  thus  "  escaping  the  mouth  of  the  //on" — a  word 
expressing  rather  the  fear  with  which  he  was  regarded  than  the 
character  he  possessed. 

We  close  this  rapid  glance  at  the  more  peculiar  and  striking 
of  Scripture  characters,  by  expressing  our  amazement : — First, 
at  their  multitude ;  secondly,  at  their  variety ;  thirdly,  at  the 
delicacy  with  which  they  are  discriminated ;  fourthly,  at  the 
manner  in  which  they  are  exhibited — so  artless,  brief,  and  mas- 
terly— not  by  analyses  or  descriptions,  but  by  actions  and 
words  ;  fifthly,  at  the  great  moral  and  emblematical  lessons  which 
they  teach ;  sixthly,  at  the  fact  that  the  majority  of  these  char- 
acters have  left  duplicates  to  this  hour ;  seventhly,  at  the  hon- 
esty of  the  writers  who  record  them^  and,  lastly,  at  this  signifi- 
cant fact,  there  is  one  character  who  appears  transcendent  above 
them  all,  at  once,  in  purity,  power,  and  wisdom.  The  Scripture 
writers  register  the  fall  of  Adam,  the  drunkenness  of  Noah,  the 
incest  of  Lot,  the  falsifications  of  x\braham,  the  passionate  wrath 
of  Moses,  the  adultery  and  murder  of  David,  Peter's  lie,  John's 
ambition,  and  Paul's  over-subtilty ;  but  to  Jesus,  they  ascribe 
nothing  but  what  is  amiable,  good,  and  godlike.  They  ex- 
hibit him  more  eloquent  than  Isaiah,  and  more  wise  than  Solo- 
mon ;  and  yet  holy  as  an  angel,  and  humble  as  the  poor  woman 
who  brake  the  alabaster  box  of  ointment  at  his  feet.  There 
are  spots  in  the  sun ;  but  there  are  none  in  thy  beams,  0  Sua 
of  Righteousness ! 

This  spotless  Lamb  is.  He  exists  somewhere.  He  is,  we 
believe,  at  God's  right  hand.  He  is  preparing,  as  he  has  prom- 
ised, to  come  down.  We  must  appear  at  his  bar.  Our  lives 
must  be  tested  and  our  natures  searched  in  the  light  of  his 
countenance.  Let  us  prepare  for  this  meeting,  which  must  be, 
and  may  be  soon,  by  putting  on  the  only  character  in  which  it 
shall  be  safe  to  confront  his  eye — that,  namely,  of  little  children. 
The  Divine  Child  must  be  met  by  "  little  children  ;"  and  amid 
their  hosannas  (as  he  entered  into  the  ancient  temple),  must  he 


S78  THE    POETICAL    CHARACTERS    IN    SCRIPTURE. 

enter  again  into  the  prepared  and  consecrated  temple  of  earth 
and  heaven.  Let  us  listen  to  his  voice,  which  he  sends  before 
him  along  his  dread  and  glorious  way,  saying,  '"Except  ye  be 
converted,  and  become  as  little  children,  ye  shall  in  no  wise 
enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 


THE   END. 


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Leigh  Hunt's  Autobiography, 

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Dr.  Johnson :  his  Religious  Life  and  his  Death. 

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History  of  Spanish  Literature. 

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The  English  Language 

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History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella. 

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History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico. 

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History  of  the  Conquest  of  Peru. 

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Past,  Present,  and  Future  of  the  Republic. 

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History  of  the  Confessional. 

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Dark  Scenes  of  History. 

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Library  of  American  Biography. 

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Gieseler's  Ecclesiastical  History. 

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Muslin,  $3  00. 

History  of  the  American  Bible  Society, 

From  its  Organization  in  1816  to  the  Present  Time.  By  Rev. 
"W.  P.  Strickland.  With  an  Introduction,  by  Rev.  N.  L.  Rice, 
and  a  Portrait  of  Hon.  Elias  Boudinot,  LL.D.,  first  President  of 

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Biographical  History  of  Congress : 

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Henry  G.  Wheeler.  With  Portraits  and  Fac-simile  Autographs. 
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Schmitz's  History  of  Rome, 

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Louis  the  Fourteenth, 

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Josephus's  Complete  Works. 

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Life  of  the  Chevalier  Bayard. 

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Bosweli's  Life  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 

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Life  and  Speeches  of  John  C.  Calhoun. 

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Neander's  Life  of  Christ ; 

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